


Third Chance

by katierosefun



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Character Death Fix, Don’t copy to another site, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Not Really Character Death, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Has Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Spider-Man: Far From Home Trailer, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-16 14:16:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19319863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katierosefun/pseuds/katierosefun
Summary: Tony Stark is alive, much to his own surprise. Only according to Nick Fury, he’s not allowed to make any contact with anyone outside his immediate family. But upon realizing Peter Parker’s about to go into a dangerous mission by himself, Tony isn’t going to sit himself on the sidelines. [Post-Endgame, predictions for Far From Home]*Will be updated daily.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We're about ten days away from Far From Home, and literally a few days ago, I sat up straight in bed and thought, 'what if Tony was alive and just couldn't tell Peter yet?' As of now, half of this 10-chap fic has already been written. This story will be crossing into the timeline of Far From Home, but expect that around the halfway mark, I'm going to jump to (what I'm going to hope) is the ending/climax of Far From Home with a twist of my own. Of course, I expect my own predictions/this fic is going to be totally off from what will actually happen in the movie, but since the movie isn't released yet, we're allowed to still have our own daydreams.
> 
> Enjoy!

At this point, Tony Stark was pretty sick and tired of almost dying and then coming back to life. He’d very much rather skip to the point where he wasn’t dead at all—to the point where he was awake and well, maybe sitting outside with Morgan on his lap and Pepper’s hand in his. Maybe smiling over the lake and flipping the page of a picture book for his daughter. Maybe looking over his shoulder to find his friends yelling over a sports game or trying to find the bathroom.

If Tony could perfect time travel just a bit more, then he’d skip himself over to that point right now.

But instead, he was here.

For a second, Tony couldn’t figure out where _here_ was—just that _here_ meant white walls and whiter sheets and a tannish ceiling. And that _here_ meant the distant thrum of a machine somewhere to his right, and that _here_ also meant that Tony felt like he had just been run over by a truck thrown by Hulk, Thor, and Steve all at once.

Only then did something shift into place in Tony’s head.

Hulk, Thor, Steve—Strange, Quill, Peter. Rhodey. Pepper.

The room was suddenly too bright. Tony squeezed his eyes shut against the lights, and then the memories came rushing back: little fires everywhere, Thanos’ leering face a few feet away from him, a snap of the fingers. Pain rushing up his side, his face, the distant screaming that might have been coming from him or from someone else. And then smoke clearing. Peter stumbling towards him with blood running down the side of his face, whispering, “Mr. Stark?” and “We won, Mr. Stark” and “I’m sorry”. Pepper slowly sitting down in front of him and giving him a sad, watery smile. A promise that “we’ll be okay” and an even quieter “you can rest now”.

“You’re awake.”

Tony snapped open his eyes to see a door opening from the wall. He tried propping himself up on his elbows, but when he looked down, only one of his arms was still attached.

The other—

“We had to remove it,” Fury said, strolling into the room. “Doctors decided it was beyond repair, but we’ve already got people working on a prosthetic.” He sat down next to Tony. “I told them it wouldn’t take too long for you to start complaining and making your own, but I’m sure you’ll play nice to them for at least while you’re recovering.”

Tony stared. “What—” He pushed his hand against the mattress but only managed to get his body up an inch or so before crumpling back. He closed his eyes. Fine, that wasn’t working. Then, trying to keep his voice from shaking, he gritted out, “Fury. _Explain_.”

“Thought I just did.”

Tony opened his eyes again to shoot the man what he hoped was his best glare.

Fury, unimpressed, folded his hands on his lap. “That little stunt you pulled with Thanos worked. His purple ass is gone, along with all his ugly pals.” When Tony didn’t say anything, Fury continued, “Everyone—including you—returned to Earth. And we managed to patch you up, clearly.” He gestured to Tony.

Tony swallowed. “Where is everyone?”

Fury stood up and pushed his hands into his pockets. “Your wife and kid are waiting a few rooms away.”

“I want to see them.” The words tumbled out of Tony like the most natural thing in the world. He strained his neck at the door, as though just by looking, Pepper and Morgan would come bounding in any second. “And everyone else.” Steve, Bruce, Thor, Strange, heck—even Quill—and _Peter_. Tell the kid to stop saying “I’m sorry”, for starters. Tony lifted his head at Fury, who hadn’t moved. “ _Now_. I want to see them _now_.”

“Not yet,” Fury replied. His hands seemed to dig themselves deeper into Fury’s pockets. “The thing is, Tony, the world thinks you’re dead.”

Tony felt the breath getting shoved out of his lungs. He stared up at Fury, and for a second, Tony thought he saw doubles. Then, “That’s funny. But it’s not.”

“It’s true,” Fury replied. “And except for Pepper and Morgan, we’re keeping it that way for now.”

Tony’s chest tightened. He saw Peter’s face flash in front of him again. The kid whispering, “I’m sorry” before being slowly pulled away by Pepper.

“You’re not allowed to do that,” Tony said, swallowing around the rage rising in his throat. He pushed himself up again, this time willing himself to stay up for _longer_ , dammit. “You have _no right_ —”

“We can’t let you out just yet,” Fury replied steadily. “There’s someone new in town, and we don’t know how he’d act if he knew Earth’s greatest defender was still alive. Whether it would be better or worse for the rest of the planet. And you’re still weak.” Fury looked down pointedly at Tony’s shaking arm. “Not in any shape to go around defending anyone, let alone yourself if he comes barreling in.”

Tony opened his mouth in reply, but then he let himself drop back to the bed. Breathing hard, he only managed, “Then what about everyone else?” He forced himself to look up at Fury, and for a second, he thought he saw something that looked like pity flicker across the man’s face, but then it was gone—and Tony didn’t want some half-assed pity, anyways. “Who’ve you got looking into this guy?”

“Spider-Man.”

Tony’s breathing deepened. He curled his fingers inward, nails digging into his palm. “No. Get someone else. Steve, Bruce, Thor, Marvel. _Anyone_ else.” He saw Peter’s wide, dark eyes blinking back tears through the haze of the battle. “He’s just a _kid_.”

“Steve’s not in any shape to fight. Bruce is off the grid, and Thor and Marvel’s both off world.”

“What—”

“Steve went back in time to return the stones,” Fury replied, and again, Tony saw the briefest flicker of pity. “Only he didn’t come back as fast as he was supposed to.”

Tony swallowed. “What happened.” It wasn’t a question.

“He stayed. Fell in love. Grew old. Passed the torch to Sam Wilson.”

Tony forced his eyes away from Fury. Forced himself to look at the ceiling, the wall, anything else. _Together_ —that was something the idiot always said. Something that Tony counted on until the end. _Together_.

But then Tony saw Steve’s slumped shoulders in battle, saw him standing in front of Thanos and his army in the dim light of the sun hiding around the clouds. Saw Steve walking into any room with arms crossed and stony expression and promises to keep fighting the never-ending fight.

Keeping his eyes trained on the wall, Tony murmured, “The fight ended for him.”

“Something like that,” Fury replied. “We lost our best soldier.”

Tony looked back at Fury. “He was more than a soldier.”

When Fury met his eyes, Tony continued, “And Peter’s not your next soldier, either. Not while I’m still breathing.” Heaving in another breath, Tony shoved himself upright. He leaned forward, pushing all his weight onto one hand. Yellow and grey spots instantly swarmed his vision, but Tony clenched his teeth together and repeated, “Peter’s not your next soldier.”

“Then who’s going to protect the planet?” Fury asked, leaning in towards Tony. His voice was low. “Look at you, Stark. You can’t get up from that bed. Spider-Man is our next best shot. _You_ made him to be our next best shot.” As Tony started to protest, Fury interrupted, “Don’t even try to fight me on this one. You’ve molded him to be our next protector.”

“Not when he’s still in _high school_ ,” Tony hissed. “Not when the kid’s _fifteen_.”

“He’ll be sixteen in a few months.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Tony’s blood roared in his ears. “You stay away from him.” He moved to jab his finger at Fury, but at just the slightest shift of his hand, Tony’s arm started to wobble. He heard Fury sigh from above him. “ _Don’t_ ,” Tony ground out.

“You need rest, Stark. The world doesn’t need Iron Man back just yet.” Fury’s voice lowered to Tony’s ear level. “But your family needs Tony Stark. Didn’t you want that?”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Tony said, jerking his head at Fury. His arm was shaking harder now, and his chest felt too tight and cramped for his heart. “Don’t you _dare_ act like this is exactly how I wanted things to be.” He ground his hand into a fist. He could see Peter right now, staring at Fury in shock and resignation as he was shuffled along to some new operation. He could see those dark eyes dulling, see those shoulders rounding over, hear him say “I’m sorry” over and over again. “At least let the kid know that I’m still alive.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let that happen.”

“Why _not_?” Tony shouted. His voice bounced around the room, and the yellow dots had almost completely taken over his vision, but he didn’t care. “If you’re going to yank him around like a puppet, he at least deserves to _know!_ ”

“And endanger himself to this new guy?” Amidst the dots, Tony could make out Fury’s shaking head. “I’ve just seen the guy a few times, and I already know he’s a terrible liar. One of his classmates has already figured out his secret identity within a heartbeat.”

Tony’s heart sank. “This is different,” he replied.

“No. Kid’s too immature to have the big secrets.”

“But he’s mature enough to go fight one of your fights.”

“He’s mature enough to fill in the shoes you’ve already put out for him.” Fury straightened. “You’ll get to talk to him eventually, Stark. Just not right now.” He pressed down on Tony’s shoulder briefly and lightly, but that was all it took for Tony’s arm to give out. Tony grunted, the rest of his body weight transferring to his forearm. He hated it, but the yellow spots were already clearing away. “Take some time off. Fix yourself up. Get yourself back together.”

Tony kept his eyes trained on the mattress. “Fuck you.”

“I saw that coming.” Fury didn’t sound angry or annoyed—just tired. “But this is for your own good, Tony. You know that.”

Tony didn’t look up. He only asked, “So Pepper and Morgan. Anyone else allowed to know?”

Fury paused. And then, “Happy Hogan. We’ve decided to clear him, since he’s so entwined with your family, anyways.”

Tony felt something in his chest loosen. Good. If Happy was still included, then maybe not everything was lost. But all he could say was, “Peter spent almost every weekend at my place before the snap. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

Fury didn’t say anything. Tony just heard another deep sigh before the clack of shoes against the floor and the hiss of the door told him that Fury was gone. Only then did Tony finally roll over on his back. He stared up at the ceiling, his head and heart both racing, racing, racing. Fury using Peter. Fury plucking Peter right out of the classroom or out of patrol or out of his apartment and telling him to go face off someone by himself, as though the last few—how long has it even been?—days or weeks or months haven’t been total chaos.

Not right now. Not alone.

The hiss of the door forced Tony to look back up to the front of the room. He wondered if Fury had decided to come back, but then all he saw was a blur of bright colors before a pair of arms wrapped themselves around his neck.

“Daddy!” Morgan cried out, her head buried deep into Tony’s chest—and something shifted into place. Not everything, but something. Warmth instantly gathered behind Tony’s eyes, and he instinctively pushed his arm over Morgan’s back, pressing both her and himself closer—close enough where he can feel Morgan trembling underneath his grip. Tony squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the tears that had started to slide down his cheeks.

“Tony.”

Tony opened his eyes and through the haze of tears, he made out Pepper looking down at him with a familiar, relieved smile. “Red eyes for your husband?” Tony asked, his voice breaking as Pepper brought a warm hand to his cheek.

“I hate not having you,” Pepper whispered.

“Not going anywhere,” Tony replied.

Pepper smiled and dipped her forehead down against Tony’s. Tony closed his eyes again, and with Pepper and Morgan right here, the world seemed to spin just a little slower. A second chance—this was what this was. No, a third chance. Another chance to sit and rest.

Tony felt Morgan shift from his grip. When he opened his eyes, Morgan’s tear-streaked face was looking right back up at him. She didn’t say anything. Morgan just sat there, her chin wobbling and her dark eyes wildly searching Tony’s face, as though trying to absorb as much of him in case he faded away.

“I’m here,” Tony said, taking Morgan’s hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Morgan looked down at their hands—her hand, which Tony had been so delighted to find looked exactly like his. “They’re my thumbs!” he had told Pepper proudly. Morgan’s hand now tightened onto Tony.

“Promise?” Morgan’s voice was small—smaller than it should have been. Tony wondered again how long he had been out. And when did Fury let Pepper and Morgan know he was alive? Had it been a week ago? Yesterday? Today?

“I promise.” Tony squeezed Morgan’s hand.

Morgan gave Tony a watery smile, and she put her head back to Tony’s chest.

“How long?” Tony murmured, brushing back Morgan’s curls.

“A month.”

Tony whipped his head over to Pepper. Her eyes were downcast. Only then did Tony register the dark bags underneath her eyes. The pale cheeks. The cracked and dried lips.

“When did you find out?” Tony could barely keep his voice from trembling. “Pep.”

“A few hours ago.”

Tony inhaled a sharp breath. “No.” When Pepper didn’t look up, he stared down at Morgan’s head.

A month. A month of Pepper sleeping alone in the bedroom and thinking her husband was gone. A month of Morgan wandering around the house and calling for Tony to scare away the monsters under her bed. A month of everyone thinking that he was dead and gone and not coming back.

“I’m never going to forgive him for this,” Tony whispered.

Without Tony even mentioning who ‘he’ was, Pepper replied, “Fury said he was trying to protect all of us. And you weren’t in a stable enough condition to have people visit you.” The heaviness dragging down Pepper’s words signaled to Tony that this was only a halfhearted attempt to defend Fury.

Tony turned to Pepper. “A month,” he only said.

“But you’re back now,” Pepper replied, her hand lowering to Tony’s shoulder. “That’s all that matters now.”

“A month.” Tony shook his head. “How—”

“The others have been trying to help.” Pepper smiled sadly. “Peter still comes by on the weekends. He babysits Morgan sometimes, and his aunt keeps bringing over food.”

Tony felt another rush of warmth behind his eyes. “Fury said Peter can’t know.”

Pepper’s face fell. “No.” She shook her head. “Tony, he—” She blinked a few times. “He _misses_ you. We _all_ did, but…” She shook her head again.

“I know.”

“Are you going to listen to him?”

“Fury said it’s to keep him safe from someone…new. A potential threat.”

Pepper’s hand moved down to Tony’s arm. “What are you going to do?” she asked quietly.

Tony only looked back up at Pepper. “Get me Happy.”

\--

After the initial stammering and swearing around explanations from both ends, Tony and Happy somehow finally moved past the discussions of how Tony was still alive. (“Thank God,” Happy sighed.)

Which brought Tony to further explanations about Fury’s supposed plan for Peter (“The kid?” Happy asked, his voice taking on the same exasperation and disbelief Tony felt).

“Are you going to listen to him?” Happy asked, echoing Pepper when Tony added the detail about Fury’s limits on contact.

“I’m going to bend the rules a bit,” Tony replied, tapping his hand against the back of his phone. “But I’m going to need your help. Need you to keep tabs on Peter and point him in the right directions, whatever that might be. Can you do that?”

The reply was almost instantaneous.

“It would be my pleasure, sir.”

Tony smiled, feeling, for the first time in forever, that it was one of actual relief. “Time to get to work.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of the feedback, everyone! You made a slightly sleep-deprived writer very happy. This chapter, as noted in yesterday's chapter, switches over to Peter's perspective. Enjoy!

“Earth to Peter.”

Peter flipped a page in his textbook. Chemical equations swam before his eyes. He traced sodium phosphate on a page, felt along the bumps of some hard-pressed ink. He needed to finish his chemistry homework—he was a little behind, especially after sleeping in by accident yesterday. Peter winced, remembering the scramble out of his suit and into his school clothes. He had entirely forgotten about breakfast, zipped past a startled Aunt May, and landed in second period without too much of a hitch until Ned reminded him that he had missed the chem quiz.

“Peter. Hello?”

A pair of fingers snapped in front of Peter’s eyes once, twice, three times before he finally lifted his head. Ned, still snapping his fingers, sighed. “ _Finally_ ,” he said, exasperated. “I’ve been calling you forever.”

“Sorry,” Peter said, closing his textbook. “Just studying.”

“You’ll be fine,” Ned snorted. “And Mr. Harrington’s quizzes are always easy for you, anyways.”

Peter managed a small smile. “I guess,” he replied. He pushed his textbook away from himself. The sunlight streaming from the window hit the cover, causing the purple illustration of the textbook to glint into Peter’s eyes. He shoved the textbook out of the light. “Anyways, what’s up?”

“New _Star Wars_ Lego set back at my place,” Ned replied. “Nearly four thousand pieces. You in?”

Peter blinked. “But the Death Star set has, like, three thousand eight hundred.”

“I _know!_ ” Ned laughed. The sound, as cheerful as it was, seemed to ring in the otherwise empty classroom. The two sometimes holed up in these empty spaces after classes, whether it be in a classroom or the gymnasium. But the last time Peter had actually willingly stayed in school since—well, _since—_ felt like a lifetime ago. “It’s gonna be _awesome!_ So you wanna get it done or what?”

Peter fiddled with a part of the textbook’s spine. A corner of the spine had just started wriggling away, and Peter figured that he would have to duct tape some part of it together again. “Sure,” he replied. He looked up at Ned, hoping his smile this time was stronger than the last. “Sounds fun.”

“Great!” Ned beamed. He picked up Peter’s textbook. “I’ll meet you outside after you take your quiz.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, standing up. He shouldered on his bag and giving Ned a halfhearted wave, he walked out of the room and into the hallway. His shoes squeaked against the freshly polished linoleum floor, and his shadow lengthened from behind as he passed other classrooms with opened windows and doors. From the distance, he could hear students running on the track for sports practice, and, from an even greater distance, Peter could hear other students laughing and shouting from outside the school property itself.

Readjusting his grip on his bag, Peter forced his attention away from the sounds outside. Super hearing and sensing and whatever would be for a later time.

“Peter.”

“Hey, Mr. Harrington,” Peter said, walking into the chemistry classroom. “Sorry about missing class.”

“It’s fine,” the teacher replied, handing Peter the assessment. “Everything okay lately?”

Peter only caught a quick glimpse of Mr. Harrington’s face before forcing his eyes back down on the quiz. He concentrated on the way his fingers gripped the corner of the paper. “Everything’s fine,” he said, hoping his voice sounded as light as Peter wanted it to be. “Aunt May’s back to work and stuff.”

“That’s great,” Peter heard Mr. Harrington say from above. There was a pause before he added, “If you ever need to talk to someone about what happened—”

“Everything’s fine,” Peter repeated, jerking his head up. His teacher—who, to Peter, had looked so much younger for what only felt like a few days ago—only smiled sadly back down at him. Like almost every other adult who hadn’t been dusted away, Mr. Harrington looked older, with grey streaking his dark hair and more wrinkles lining his forehead and eyes. “Really,” Peter added. “You don’t need to worry about me.” He waved the quiz in the air. “I’ll just…take this.”

Mr. Harrington only nodded once before Peter dropped himself down at a desk. Ducking his head down at the quiz, Peter scanned through the questions only once before he started sneaking glances back up at his teacher. He wondered how many talks Mr. Harrington had to give to other students who had suddenly come back from being declared lost. Just the other day, Peter had seen a freshman curled up in front of a locker. When Peter had gotten closer, the freshman had kept repeating, “it was dark” before someone called over the school counselor.

Peter had noticed people staring at him, too. People who weren’t his classmates—not the classmates he grew up with, anyways. He had checked Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter all to find that the students now missing from his supposed graduating class (or his old graduating class?) had all moved on to college. He found out that the girl who had been in his fifth grade class had just gotten engaged while going to school at USC, while the boy who had been in his eighth grade English class had decided to join the military. The twins who lived across from him had both moved to Alaska to start some kind of business, and the girl he used to have a crush on in first grade was publishing her first book in Boston.

Peter stared down at the chemistry equation sitting in front of him. _Balance the following equation_ , the problem read. Empty blanks where the coefficients of elements bore into Peter, and he traced the bare outlines of numbers onto the paper. There were other blanks, Peter knew, not just in this stupid equation. But elsewhere. Deeper elsewhere.

A pain erupted in Peter’s chest, and the equation started to fade in and out of focus as some part of him started desperately searching, _clawing_ for something to fill an empty blank in his memory. An empty blank that was distinctly shaped like a half-burned man right in front of Peter—an empty blank that was distinctly shaped like a wreath slowly floating away on a lake from a month ago…

Peter swallowed hard, tightening his grip on his pencil. He stared down at the sheet of paper, at the empty blanks, at the scramble of letters that was supposed to make up water and carbon dioxide and nitrogen phosphate and—

The pencil snapped in Peter’s hand.

Mr. Harrington startled from his desk. “What—”

“Sorry,” Peter said quickly, dropping the broken remnants of his pencil into his bag. “Was holding it a little too hard.” It hurt to smile. “Do you have a pencil I could borrow?”

\--

“Hey, Karen—anything new?”

“We’ve been doing this for approximately six and a half hours, Peter.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter muttered, swinging his legs from the fire escape. He peered down at the cars zipping from underneath him. “It’s a Friday, though. We’ve got some more free time.”

“It is eleven thirty PM.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter said. The cars below him had slowed down at a red light. From here, he could see a couple bobbing their heads up and down and up and down to some music. A little girl in the backseat of a red car was watching something from a phone. A boy probably a few years older than Peter was sticking a cigarette outside the window of his black car. Peter couldn’t help but wonder if they had all been dusted before, or if they had just grown up with people suddenly missing from their lives. He watched the boy throw the cigarette to the sidewalk.

The light turned green, and the cars were zipping off again, the couple and the little girl and the boy all speeding away back to their lives. Peter kept his eyes trained on those cars, letting them gradually turn into nothing more than little bits of color underneath the city lights until he finally heard something shuffling from behind him.

“Only a rat,” Karen said as Peter turned his head. “There is no one of any immediate danger within a five mile radius.”

A second later, a cry sounded from Peter’s left.

“A five mile radius?” Peter asked, already jumping to his feet.

“Miss James was not in immediate danger until approximately point three five seconds ago,” Karen replied, and if an AI could sound defensive, then Karen was definitely such. “She is currently two blocks away.”

“Thanks,” Peter said and leapt off the building.

Air rushed up to his face, and Peter shot out his hand for a string of webbing to swing him from building to building. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the windows, took note of the glint of his suit reflected against the glass. Even in the dark, Peter could make out the distinct red and blue and even slight gold that flashed right back at him.

Peter’s throat tightened unexpectedly, and he forced his eyes back forward. He kicked off the building, distancing himself from the windows as far as he could before crashing back down to the ground.

A young woman wearing a red sweatshirt was yanking back her bike from some taller, clearly stronger figure in a ski mask. “Back off!” she screamed, gripping the handlebars. The figure only growled something in response, but before he (or she?) could do anything else, Peter let a length of webbing fly from his palm.

“Hey!” the thief protested as he slammed back against a wall.

“I’m getting kinda tired of people stealing each other’s bikes,” Peter only said, walking towards the thief. “Seriously, man, it’s been the third time this week.” He turned to the woman. “Have a nice night, ma’am.”

“Thanks, Spider-Man,” the woman replied with a slight bob of the head. She narrowed her eyes at Peter. “Gotta ask, though—new suit?”

The tightening in Peter’s throat returned. “Um—” He took a few steps backward. “Something like that.”

“Nice.” Then the woman was peddling away, and Peter was still backing away, one foot at a time.

“Just to let you know, I’ve only tried to take that lady’s bike _once_ ,” the thief called as Peter kept walking back. “I don’t know who the hell the other two were.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, his own voice sounding distant in his ears. “Great. Keep it up.” He slowly turned around and shot himself upwards. He flung himself from window to window, wall to wall, his head, heart, everything pounding in his ears as he tried not to look at his reflection or at the suit or at anything that could shine in the light, which was all stupid because he was living in a city, so everything looked metal and shiny and red and gold under just the right angle.

“Your heart rate has increased,” Karen noted, and though it could have been Peter’s imagination, he could have sworn the AI’s voice had quieted. “I suggest stopping on one of the nearby buildings.”

“I’m fine,” Peter managed, grappling another bit of webbing around a street lamp. “Everything’s fine.” The pavement and cars and people blurred beneath him as he flew past. “Everything’s fine,” he repeated. His breath came out in labored, puffed pants. His hands, even though they were covered, felt slick and clammy at once. The pounding had gone from a distant rhythm to a loud, beating pain in the head.

“You should rest now,” Karen suggested.

“I’m almost home,” Peter replied, swinging from the spire of some building. “Just a little further.”

For a second, Karen didn’t say anything, and Peter felt a surge of relief until suddenly, Karen said, “Naptime Protocol activated.”

“Naptime—hey!” Peter shouted as his webs shorted out. “Karen—wait!” Without Peter even moving, just enough webbing shot out from Peter’s hand to lead him to the closest rooftop. Peter slammed into the ground with a grunt. “What was that for?”

“Mr. Stark—”

Peter clamped his hands over his ears. “Not now,” he said, digging his forehead into the rooftop. “Karen, _no_ —”

“—implemented Naptime Protocol in the likely event that you might overexert yourself, whether it be in physical or mental circumstances.”

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. “I didn’t need that,” he said, hating how his voice cracked. “Karen, deactivate the…protocol.”

“Mr. Stark—”

“ _Stop!_ ” Peter shouted, slamming his hands to the ground. He wanted to stop hearing Karen speak over him, wanted to stop hearing this name over and over again. “Just get rid of it!” He lifted his head from the ground, the pain in his head beating around like a drum. Peter ripped off his mask, letting air rush into his mouth, his throat, his lungs. Peter held the mask limply in his hands, feeling the strength slowly sap away from his fingers, his wrist, his grip until he lifted his head.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Peter murmured.

He stared up at the blue, red, and gold painted mural painted over the brick wall in front of him. Blinking frantically, Peter stared right back at Ironman flying right towards him, armored hand outstretched and ready to fire. Peter fell forward on his knees. He took in the red, gold, the Ironman helmet.

And then the pain in Peter’s head moved down to his chest, and then Peter was curling forward, inward, as the mural continued to gaze down on him. Peter couldn’t even remember when he started crying, but suddenly he was shaking as tears streamed down his face. He slammed his hand against the ground over and over and over again, ignoring the pain that shot up his arm every time skin made contact with concrete. With each flash of pain, Peter saw Tony’s face flash before him—first the wink and the sly smile Tony shot him when Peter walked into the living room on the first day, and then the worried and frightened look Tony wore when he told Peter that “you’re done”. And then the laugh and smirk as Happy drove Peter home, and then the surprise as Peter walked away from a new suit. And then the eye-rolls and grins and exasperated raised eyebrows that came along with every time Peter came to the Compound to train or learn something new. And then the wariness of being in space, and then the fear as Peter stumbled forward with bits and pieces of him being blown away, and then the relief and dazed joy as Peter shot through Dr. Strange’s portal, and then—

Peter gasped out a long, shuddering breath. He lifted his head up to the mural. Ironman—no, Tony—looked back down at him.

Peter figured he had to go back home. Back to the apartment, back to his room, where he could forget that this mural ever existed.

But as Peter pushed himself up to his feet, he looked back down at the city and felt like something had decided to sit on top of his chest.

Because the glints of red and gold in his city weren’t just glints of red and gold under a certain angle—those flashes of red and gold were the hundreds of thousands of more posters and murals all with a certain suit of armor. Ironman splayed across shop windows, apartment and office buildings, schools.

As Peter put his mask back on, Karen noted, “It would be safer to not use your webbing for now. Naptime Protocol is still activated.”

Peter’s throat tightened. “You mean I have to walk?” he asked, looking down at the posters and murals.

“Or you can sit and wait until your heartbeat has become steadier,” Karen replied. “As it is about twelve thirty AM, however, I believe going back to your apartment as soon as possible would be the best option.”

Peter forced his eyes up to the sky. There weren’t any stars. If NASA hadn’t released pictures, and if Peter hadn’t been up there himself, he wondered if New Yorkers would even believe if space existed. “I’ll be fine,” he said, and he sat back down on the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I do not plan on making Peter Parker bubbly and happy-go-lucky, because after what the poor boy's been through, how would he? As always, review/constructive criticism are always appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onto chapter three - this chapter will be in Tony's perspective. And a sidenote: I've noticed that there are lots of new trailers/clips being released of Far From Home lately, but I've avoided those clips because since the movie's coming out soon, I want to avoid any more possible speculative theories because ya girl is sTRESSED about our precious spiderboi. So most of this story is just going to be based off the earliest trailers.
> 
> Enjoy!

Tony stared down at his arm. “Thanks,” he said flatly, curling his new fingers inwards. “I hate it.”

“Get over yourself,” Fury sighed. “We know you’ll make yourself a new one eventually.”

“Eventually,” Tony muttered, letting his hand drop to his side. His new arm—if one could even call it that—felt all wrong. Felt like there was a humongous aluminum trash can bumping against his side. “I feel like there’s a trash lid attached to my shoulder,” Tony said. He rotated his shoulder and watched the silver arm move along with him. “Seriously, you couldn’t do something better than this?”

“Work with it, Stark,” Fury said, annoyance pricking his voice. “If you can construct an Ironman suit out of a box of scraps, you can survive with a metal arm constructed by the country’s best engineers.”

“Second only to me, of course,” Tony muttered, but if Fury heard him (which he probably definitely did), he didn’t say anything.  Tony looked back down at his arm again. The whole thing, despite Tony’s complaints, wasn’t all _that_ bad. But given the fact that Nick Fury wasn’t exactly Tony’s favorite person right now, he was determined to remain dissatisfied for the show of it.

“Just focus on recovering and regaining your strength,” Fury said, pushing himself off the couch. “Can’t be too hard in this new place of yours.” As though to prove his point, Fury’s eye skimmed over the high wooden ceilings, the rug, and the lake and the trees outside of the tall windows.

Tony pretended he didn’t hear the last bit. “And you just focus on keeping Peter Parker alive,” he said, resting his new hand on his knee. “You’ve got the harder part of the bargain.”

Fury’s lips curled, but he definitely wasn’t smiling. “This isn’t a bargain, Stark. Just a safety measure.”

“Potato, po-tah-to,” Tony said, turning out the window. He didn’t turn back around until he heard the front door open and close. A minute later, he called out, “Okay, Morgan, you can stop hiding now.”

“Sorry, Daddy,” Morgan said, padding into the room. When Tony turned back around, Morgan was already sitting at the other end of the couch. Still clad in her pajamas and hair frizzy with sleep, Morgan looked, for a moment, like she would on a normal day. On a normal day, here would be when Tony would pick Morgan up and get her into the kitchen. He’d joke about making an omelet, but then Morgan would complain that he took too long, and then they’d settle for frozen waffles instead. And then they would probably go out to the lake, where Tony would make sure Morgan wouldn’t wade too far into the water.

But Morgan’s stillness was the one thing that kept this from being a normal day.

“He was the one who told Mommy and me you were alive,” Morgan said, bringing her knees to her chest. “What’s wrong?”

Something heavy settled in Tony’s stomach. He hated the fact that Morgan was asking such a question—not “is something wrong?”, but “what’s wrong?” as though there _had_ to be something wrong for a man to show up in the house. Which Tony supposed was true, but looking at his little girl, he wished the world could have waited at least a few more years before Morgan could ask such questions.

“Nothing’s wrong, little miss,” Tony said, standing up. He extended a hand—his flesh hand, not the metal one—to Morgan, and to his relief, she took it right away. Morgan’s hand was a little ball of warmth in Tony’s, and Tony carried that warmth with him all the way into the kitchen where he proceeded to ask, “Omelet for breakfast?”

“You always take too long,” Morgan said. She lifted her face up at Tony. “Waffles instead.”

Tony smiled. “Waffles it is,” he agreed. With his metal arm, he opened the freezer. His eyes skimmed over the packages of chicken thighs, shrimp, steak, some vegetable medley, those dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets Morgan loved so much, and he was just about to lean over to grab the familiar yellow and orange box of frozen waffles when he stopped short at a log of—

“What’s this?” Tony asked, picking up a beige, dark brown-speckled log wrapped in cling film. “Is this…”

“Cookie dough,” Morgan explained. “Peter came over a few days ago to make cookies with me.” She let go of Tony’s hand and before he could ask where she was going, Morgan returned with a plastic container of chocolate chip cookies. “See?” she said proudly, popping open the lid. The smell of vanilla and chocolate wafted up to Tony, and Morgan chose out two large cookies before dutifully putting the lid back. “Peter’s not a good baker,” she explained, handing Tony one of the cookies. “So he told me to make sure we were doing things right.”

Tony smiled. He knew for a fact that Peter was, actually, a decent baker when he wanted to be. “Aunt May always bakes,” Peter had once explained to him somewhat sheepishly after Tony asked about the walnut date loaf. “Sometimes I help out, but…you know.” And Tony hadn’t known, but Peter only shrugged (again, somewhat sheepishly).

“So then this…?” Tony asked, holding up the log.

“Peter said if I ever wanted more cookies, then I can always bake those without him,” Morgan replied. She paused. “But I promised him that I wouldn’t bake them until he came back.” She laid a hand on the log and guided it back into the freezer. “What are you going to do when Peter comes back?”

Tony stared at the log. “Not sure,” he replied. He looked down at Morgan and tried for a smile. “That’s still a work in progress.”

“Hm,” Morgan only said. She stuck her cookie in her mouth and reached for the box of frozen waffles. “We’ll figure it out,” she said over her shoulder, walking over to the kitchen counter. She set the box down and looked expectedly at Tony. “Now can I please have two waffles?”

“Cookies before breakfast?” Tony asked, taking a bite out of the cookie Morgan had given him. The cookie was softer than he expected, and the chocolate melted right in Tony’s mouth. He pictured Morgan standing on top of a chair as Peter directed her how to stir butter and sugar together. He pictured Peter with flour streaked across his shirt, and Morgan sneaking away bites of raw cookie dough. He pictured Peter carefully taking out the tray from the oven and burning his tongue with Morgan at the first bite of cookie. Tony wondered if Pepper had ever watched them, and if she had taken any pictures.

“Don’t tell Mommy,” Morgan only said, and as if Pepper could walk in any minute, she crammed the rest of her cookie into her mouth. She rubbed away at a stain of chocolate at her lip and smiled up at Tony through cookie crumbs.

Tony let out a small laugh. “Your secret’s safe with me,” he said, and sticking the cookie into his mouth, he ripped open the box of waffles.

\--

Tony drummed his fingers against the workbench. His mind reeled with all of the potential ways he could get to Peter without Fury noticing. He figured Fury already had cameras on Peter, or at least people on Peter, and even though Tony knew for a fact that he owned the most advanced technology in the world, he _also_ knew that Nick Fury was one of the most cunning people in the world, and therefore not one to underestimate.

Tony pushed a hand up to his forehead. Well, if he couldn’t talk to Peter right now, then he could at least check how Peter was doing right now.

“FRIDAY, get me Karen if you can.”

But Tony already knew FRIDAY could get Karen from Peter’s suit. Tony had first hesitated at the idea of having access to Peter’s AI, but after finding out about the rubble incident with the Vulture, he knew there’d be potential bad days when Tony would have to make sure the kid wasn’t somewhere alone being crushed to death by something. _Just to make sure he’s okay,_ Tony thought as he waited for Karen to come online.

“Good afternoon, Tony,” Karen said, her voice rippling through the lab. “What can I help you with?”

“How’s Peter doing?” Tony asked, sitting down at the workbench. “Give me a run through on the last…” He was tempted to ask Karen to tell him everything that had happened within the last month, but then Tony imagined the tears dribbling from Peter’s face as Tony thought he was taking his last breaths.

“Give me a run through the last forty-eight hours,” Tony said instead.

“Of course.” On cue, a screen pulled up in front of Tony. He watched Peter crash through some kind of restaurant, iron limbs stretched out before him and glass shattering around the room as some dark-suited men crashed to the ground. Tony couldn’t help but smirk at Peter’s “what took you so long?” as police men finally entered the restaurant.

But then one of the police men asked, “You gonna be the next Ironman now?”

Even though Peter’s mask was still on, Tony could spot just the barest tightness in the kid’s shoulders as he replied, “Nah, I’m too busy doing your jobs.” As the policemen started groaning, Peter gave a short little laugh before springing away from the scene.

Tony knuckled his fist into the workbench as Peter swung away from the building in silence. And just there, underneath the sound of the breeze, Tony could hear faint gasps from underneath Peter’s mask. Tony’s heart clenched. He knew those sounds too well, knew that _feeling_ too well.

Karen pulled up the next day’s footage—yesterday’s footage, Tony supposed—and watched as Peter swung to a short stop in front of a young woman with a bike.

“Gotta ask—new suit?” she asked, grinning up at Peter, and Tony heard Peter’s slow, stammered, “Something like that.”

Tony swallowed. He’d made that new suit for Peter specifically. He remembered Peter’s exhilarated “it smells like a new car in here!” as the two sped up, up, up into space, and then Peter’s simultaneously awed and sheepish “this suit is crazy intuitive” when Tony found the kid hiding out in the spaceship. He remembered seeing Peter fly out of Strange’s portal with the metal red and blue and gold glinting in the light of the battle and feeling the greatest surge of relief and pride and, whether Tony knew it then, _love_ , because Peter was back and alive, and Tony had known everything would be worth it.

Now, Tony watched as Peter blindly sped away. He heard Karen advise Peter to slow down, heard Peter repeating “everything’s fine” before grounding into the rooftop of a building.

“Naptime Protocol,” Tony murmured in unison with Karen. He watched, frozen, as Peter turned to a mural, and then nothing else existed except Peter’s sobs under the glow of the paint and city lights. Tony felt the strength in his legs give out from underneath him, forcing him to crash down into the nearest seat.

When Tony finally spoke, his voice felt raw, as though he had been screaming along with Peter the whole time.

“How long was he there?” he asked.

“For several hours,” Karen replied. “It was three twenty-four AM when he returned to his apartment.”

Tony pushed his hands up to his forehead. He couldn’t bring himself to watch the rest of the footage—couldn’t bring himself to watch Peter sitting there alone with no one but his AI to comfort him.

“And how is he now?” Tony whispered at the workbench.

Tony lifted his head to find that the screen had changed, revealing a sleeping Peter Parker in his bed. Tony took in Peter’s disheveled curls, the thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead. A second later, the door swung open, and Tony felt another burst of relief at seeing May kneel down beside Peter.

“Feeling any better?” May asked quietly, pushing back Peter’s curls.

Peter mumbled something unintelligible.

“You shouldn’t have stayed out so late,” May said, but there wasn’t any bite in her voice. Just weariness and sadness weighing down her words.

Peter only rolled over on his side, blocking himself both from May and from Tony.

Tony closed his eyes, Peter still burned into his head. “Got it, Karen,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Tony.”

When Tony re-opened his eyes, the screen was gone, and he was left feeling hollower than ever. By somehow checking on Peter, he didn’t feel any less worried about what kind of world the kid was living in.

“Naptime Protocol has only been activated for the first time last night,” Karen said, as though that was to help Tony feel better. “Peter has been otherwise trying to control himself.” There was a pause, and then Karen added, “But I understand that emotional repression is not helpful to anyone, particularly Peter.”

“Kid should know,” Tony muttered. He ran a hand through his hair. “Any other things you’ve been doing to check on him, Karen?”

“I suspect Peter won’t be using this new suit anymore.”

Tony blinked. “What?” he asked, feeling a sharp needle of pain at his chest. “Why?”

“As you have observed, Peter’s own emotional state becomes less and less stable every time he puts on the suit. I believe comments from the general public have not been particularly helpful for him, either.”

Tony slumped in his seat. “Right,” he murmured. “Of course.” He tilted his head back up at the ceiling, imagining Peter in his older suit. Not the mess of cotton and homemade goggles, of course, but back to the first suit Tony had made for Peter. There was nothing _wrong_ with that suit, per say, but—Tony’s throat tightened—he had worked on it to make sure Peter was safe. Updated that suit to cover anything that might keep Peter from harm. Not that the suit had kept Peter safe from Thanos the first time around, but…Tony had done whatever it took for him to bring Peter back. That suit otherwise was the only form of protection Tony still had for Peter. The only form—the last form.

Tony lifted his face up at the empty space where the screen had been. Karen would still be in Peter’s old suit, of course, still giving advice in Tony’s place. Tony supposed he could feel some reassurance in that. But Karen giving advice wasn’t the same as Tony giving advice, or Tony being the one to make sure Peter stayed safe. Not right now. Not with Fury about to barge right into Peter’s life.

There was no way Tony was going to let that kid go into Fury’s mess alone.

Tony suddenly stood up, the seat scraping back with a loud whine, but he didn’t care. “FRIDAY,” he said. “Get me Happy.”

“Of course,” FRIDAY replied, and as the phone rang, Tony turned to where Karen’s voice came from.

“You don’t mind if I take over your role for a bit, do you, Karen?” he asked, though he already predicted Karen’s “of course I don’t mind”. Still, Tony felt the first few sparks of hope lighting inside of him as he turned back to where Happy was already online.

“Yes, sir?” Happy asked.

“I’ve got an idea to get to Peter,” Tony said, sitting back down at his seat. “It involves one of my other labs—you know the one, right in the jet.”

“Yeah,” Happy said, puzzled. “How’re you gonna—”

“Peter’s going to have to make a new suit,” Tony replied, already pulling up his own screens. He grinned to himself. “And he’s going to have me as his new AI.”

Happy was silent for a moment, and then he asked, “And Fury won’t find out about this?”

Tony snorted. “Fury knows I’m narcissistic enough to make myself into an AI. He won’t suspect a thing.” Tony started typing. “Just get Peter to build a new suit. That’s when the fun will begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, review/constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the ongoing support! Also, to clarify some things: I'm able to update this daily because I have the majority of this story already written. Last night, I just finished writing chapter seven, so I'm already wrapping up some things in this story. So ya girl (for once) actually kinda planned ahead, so ya'll don't need to worry about me ghosting.
> 
> Enjoy!

**FOUR.**

Daylight burned Peter’s eyes. He forced a heavy arm over his face, trying to block out the sun, but the damage was already done. Green and red flashed painfully behind Peter’s closed eyelids at the sudden brightness, intensifying the dull throbbing in his skull.

“Peter?” The door creaked open. Peter already knew it was May. “I know you said you’re not hungry, but you should still eat something.”

Peter heard May’s soft footsteps coming toward him. There was a dull clatter of a tray on top of Peter’s desk, and then a deep sigh. “Peter,” Aunt May whispered. “Come on. I know you’re awake.”

Peter let his arm drop from his face. “Can you close the blinds?” he asked in a small voice. Without a word, May walked across the room and folded the blinds close with a soft snap. But even though the room was now considerably dimmer, Peter’s head still ached. He sat up slowly, feeling like his limbs were caught in a net.

“Here,” May said, propping up Peter’s pillows. “Lean back—no, don’t lie back down— _lean_.”

Peter obliged, letting his head bump back against the bedframe. He watched May pick up the tray from his desk and only felt the warmth of the food when May brought it closer to him. “Mrs. Kim from downstairs gave me this porridge recipe,” May said, dipping a spoon into the bowl of what looked like white goop.

Peter looked down at it. Black and light brown sesame seeds and flecks of carrot and green onion dotted the porridge. He looked back up at May, who only smiled gently before pressing a spoon into Peter’s hand. “Have it,” she said, and though her voice was soft, there was a distinct edge of steel that made Peter dip the spoon into the bowl.

Spoonful by slow spoonful, Peter eventually emptied the bowl and pushed it back towards May. With a relieved sigh, May took the bowl and placed it back on the desk. “Does that feel any better?” she asked, pressing a cool hand to Peter’s forehead. “Your fever’s gone down a little bit since yesterday.” She dropped her hand back down on the bed. Then, her eyes boring into Peter, she asked, “So do you want to tell me why you were out so late the other night?”

Peter looked down at his covers. “Not really,” he said, bunching his hands over the blankets. The blankets had dark brown, blue, white, and the occasional mustard or camouflage green patch. He remembered Tony plopping himself down beside him—Peter, feeling like every single one of his senses was buzzing; Peter, staring at Tony in a mix of awe and bewilderment that this man he had been watching on television for nearly ten years was in his _bedroom_ , sitting on his _bed_.

Peter heard May sigh across from him. “Peter,” she started, but Peter started shaking his head—hard.

“Aunt May,” he said, keeping his eyes trained on where his hands were clutching the blankets, “I don’t wanna talk about it right now.”

“I’m worried about you.” May paused. “Ever since the funeral, you’ve been—”

“I’ve just been busy, that’s all,” Peter said, hating how his voice raised an octave. His eyes stung. Peter gripped the blankets tighter. “Someone’s gotta make sure the bad guys don’t win.”

“The bad guys won’t suddenly start winning because you took a little time off, Peter,” May said gently, pushing back Peter’s curls. Peter bunched his shoulders together under her touch. “You need time,” May added. “Time to process and time to grieve. That’s normal, Peter.” Her voice cracked, and Peter looked up, stricken to find May’s eyes shining with tears.

“When Ben died,” May said slowly, “I didn’t feel like the ground was pulled from my feet or whatever people like to say.” She dropped her hand from Peter’s curls. “When Ben died, I felt like someone had just left large cracks and holes in the ground—cracks and holes that couldn’t ever be fixed, no matter how hard someone tried to.” She smiled sadly. “Anytime I saw something or saw someone in a certain light, I was reminded of Ben, and that was when I would always know that I had run into one of those cracks or fallen into a hole. And that was hard.”

Peter’s eyes stung. He forced his eyes away from May and up to the bunk bed above them. He blinked once, twice, but the tears were already in Peter’s eyes and making their way down his face. “Someone painted Tony on a wall,” Peter whispered. He let out a small gasp, trying to breathe around the large lump in his throat. “And there are more, too. They’re everywhere.” He swallowed and tilted his head back to May, who only watched him with her own red, watery eyes. “They’re in my school,” Peter continued. “Posters and drawings and stuff. And they’re on the streets and on the stores and _everywhere_ , Aunt May.” His face crumpled, and through the blur of tears, he saw May move towards him. Peter let his head fall on May’s shoulder as her arms wrapped around him.

“I know, Peter,” she whispered, rubbing a hand on his back. “I know how it hurts.” Her voice was thick when she added, “I wish it didn’t have to hurt for you as much as it does.”

“I can’t even say anything at school or out there,” Peter mumbled into May’s shirt. He closed his eyes shut, letting the tears dribble down. “No one will ever…”

“That’s not true,” May said, bringing a hand up to the top of Peter’s head. She gently pushed Peter out so that he was facing her. “Peter,” she said, her eyes wide and searching Peter’s face, “I may not have superpowers or have been the one going up to space, but I _know_ Tony was special to you.” She smiled sadly, brushing a tear away from Peter’s cheek. “And you were special to him.”

Peter swallowed hard. A part of him wished he could blurt out to May that he wished he wasn’t so special to Tony—maybe that way, Tony Stark would still be alive, and the world would have Ironman again. But looking at May’s tear-rimmed eyes, Peter could only just swallow back the words.

So he just nodded instead.

\--

“Do you think you can use your powers to make the clock go faster?” Ned whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Doesn’t work like that,” Peter whispered back, but he, too, glanced up at the clock as though by pure observation alone might make the minute hands work a little faster. No luck—there was still at least another ten minutes left of class, and Miss Lockland’s lecture on the Cold War wasn’t going any faster.

“Maybe you can shoot a web at her mouth,” Ned suggested.

Peter looked at Ned, who said hastily, “Joking, joking.” Only a second passed before he whispered, “But have you ever thought about doing that before?”

“ _No_ ,” Peter protested, only he was a little louder than he had anticipated, and his “no” made several heads turn at him—including Miss Lockland’s.

“Something you would like to share with the class, Mr. Parker?” the teacher asked, lifting a sharp eyebrow.

Peter resisted the urge to elbow Ned. He braced on his best meek smile and said, “No, Miss Lockland.” When the teacher turned back to the board, Peter reached over and stepped on Ned’s foot instead. His friend winced, but the looks the two boys exchanged told Peter that Ned knew he deserved at least that much.

However, when the bell finally rang, Ned whispered, “Dude, you’re gonna break my foot one day.”

“And one day, you’re gonna get me into trouble,” Peter replied, scooting his books off his desk. Only his hand moved too fast, and one of his textbooks slipped off the desk with a loud _thump_. “Whoops,” Peter muttered, ducking down to pick up the textbook. His fingers only just barely brushed against the cover before he caught a glimpse of red and yellow from behind.

Peter’s breath caught in his throat. He hoped it was a poster for some school project or a flyer for a board meeting or _something else_ , and even though a small (more responsible) part of Peter’s head told him to _not look_ , Peter felt his head twisting to the back of the classroom.

Peter came face to face with not just one or two—but a collage—of drawings of the Ironman suit and helmet plastered on the corkboard behind him. Peter’s hand dropped limply on the cover of the textbook, his body still twisted around to take in the drawings. “When…?” he whispered.

“Oh,” Ned said, his voice surprisingly quiet. “Um…Miss Lockland put those pictures up this morning. Her kid keeps giving them to her, and she doesn’t know where else to put them.”

Peter felt a hand on his shoulder. He knew it was Ned, gently trying to get him to turn back around, but Peter kept his eyes trained on the red and yellow.

“Come on, man,” Ned said. “Let’s get outta here.”

Peter tore his eyes away from the papers. He blinked down at his textbook and for a brief moment, wondered what the book was doing down there. Then he turned to Ned, who was staring at him with the same sad, pained look May had given him just a few days ago.

“Yeah,” Peter finally managed to say, picking up his textbook.

“I mean, listen,” Ned said, patting Peter’s shoulder, “we’re gonna be away soon.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

Ned stared. “Europe? Remember?” He waved a hand in front of Peter’s face. “School trip? Does Europe ring any bells? You know, big field trip at the end of the school year? Kind of more like a vacation?”

“Oh.” Peter only now vaguely remembered getting a permission slip to May and asking her to sign for some trip that meant he’d need his passport. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“It’s gonna be great,” Ned said, grinning. “Good food, good art, good-looking people.” At Peter’s side glance, Ned added, “Europeans love Americans.”

“Really?” Peter asked, though he felt the beginnings of a smile form on his lips. He only just started pushing his book into his bag when he felt someone else coming near him, and when he lifted his head, MJ was standing in front of his desk.

“What’s up, dorks,” she said, one curl dangling right in front of her face. As always, she wore the unimpressed look of someone who was perpetually stuck in a building full of idiots—which, Peter supposed, was probably close to the truth from her perspective.

“What’s up,” Peter replied, trying to keep his voice light. “We were just discussing the trip.” He paused and, flicking his eyes up at MJ, asked, “Are you going?”

“I thought I wasn’t going to, but then Ned wouldn’t shut up about it, so I figured maybe I would,” MJ replied. She shoved her hands in her pockets. “Besides, someone’s got to make sure you two don’t get into trouble.”

“Who, us?” Ned chirped. “Never.”

“Clearly.” MJ deadpanned. She glanced over at Peter, one thumb now jutting out of her pocket. “Not going to run off and disappear in the middle of the trip, are you, Parker?”

“Is this about the Decathalon?” Peter asked, trying for a smile, but MJ didn’t smile back.

“Just making sure you don’t sneak around and do something dumb,” was all MJ said. But before Peter could ask what that was supposed to mean, she picked up Peter’s backpack and slung it over her shoulder. “C’mon,” she said. “I’m hungry.”

\--

When the last bell finally rang, Peter found Happy waiting right outside of the school for him. For a second, Peter could only just stop and stare. The last time Happy had ever picked him up from school was back when Tony was still alive, technically back before the snap. Since then, Peter had mostly just ridden a bus or had asked May to drive him to the Stark lake house so he could babysit Morgan.

Seeing Happy stand in front of the school now like this was just another normal day made Peter clutch his bag a little tighter, made breathing just a little harder.

“Hey, kid,” Happy said as Peter approached the car. “How was school?”

“How was—” Peter glanced over his shoulder, but no one was watching. “What are you doing here?”

Happy only opened the passenger door. “We’re going for a drive.”

A half hour later, that drive ended up being a trip to a jet, and when Peter balked in front of the jet, Happy only said, “Get on.”

“But—” Peter glanced around. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain things later.”

Peter stared in exasperation at Happy’s retreating back. He considered calling May, but before he could even reach for his phone, Happy added, “I already told your aunt that you needed to take care of something.”

“Take care of what?” Peter asked, hiking up the steps to the jet. But Happy only gave Peter a sly look before telling him to get ready for takeoff.

For another solid half hour, Peter stared back at Happy, who alternated between bouncing his knee and looking out the window as New York gave way beneath them.

Finally, Happy asked, “How’ve you ben doing?” He lifted a hand from his knee as a small gesture. “Pepper’s let me know that you’re great with Morgan. She adores you.”

Peter managed a small twitch of a smile. “She’s great,” he said, but his own voice sounded halfhearted even to his own ears. “Really energetic.”

“Tell me about it,” Happy said, sounding relieved. “Can’t keep up with her to save my life.” When the two lapsed back into a steady silence, Happy asked, “And how’s your aunt?”

“She’s fine.”

“That’s good,” Happy said, and then he cleared his throat. “Anyways, I figured you’re probably wondering why we’re here.” He patted his hands back down on his knees. He glanced up at Peter, as though trying to gauge out a reaction, but Peter only stared back.

“Okay.” Happy cleared his throat. “Nick Fury is going to call you soon.”

Peter blinked. Out of all the things he’d expected Happy to say, _that_ was not one of them. “Nick Fury?” he asked, stunned. “Like, _the_ Nick Fury? The one who put together the Avengers and stuff?”

“And stuff,” Happy snorted. “One of the biggest guys out there—trust me, he’s done _stuff_.” He shook his head, grumbling something to himself, but Peter’s head was still reeling.

“Why’s he going to call me?” Peter asked, gripping his bag (which was still slung around his shoulders).

“Because there’s something he’s going to want you to look into,” Happy replied. His eyes met Peter’s, and Peter saw his reflection looking right back. “He wants you on a mission, kid.”

\--

“No,” Peter said when the silence passed. “I’m not doing it.”

Happy sounded just as unhappy as Peter felt. “You don’t have a choice—not when it comes to Nick Fury.”

“I don’t care.” Peter’s voice shook, and he didn’t even care. “Tell him I’ve got other things to do. Tell him to get someone else. Anyone else.”

“I don’t think Fury’s the kind of guy who wants to negotiate.”

“I don’t _care_ ,” Peter repeated. His backpack was suddenly suffocating. The jet felt too small and too tight for Peter. He tossed his backpack to the ground, but that didn’t help the suffocation at all. “I can’t—I’m not—” Peter’s head raced with the images of the spaceship, Thanos’ glove, Dr. Strange suddenly making portals. Peter carrying the glove from place to place, riding on nothing but adrenaline, and then suddenly all of Thanos’ ugly armies were gone, and then Peter was crouching in front of Tony—Tony, with his face half burned away, and Tony, not even able to breathe a single word as Peter clung onto him, said that they _had won,_ they had _won_ , Mr. Stark, so _please_ stay alive, because they had _won_ —

“I’m not the right person,” Peter said, his eyes stinging. “I can’t do…I can’t protect people in a large-scale mission.” He looked up at Happy. “That’s what Fury wants me to do, right?”

Happy pressed his lips together and didn’t say anything, which was all the answer Peter needed. Peter looked back down at his feet, at his open hands. At those hands which had only briefly held onto Tony before Pepper had quietly pulled him away.

“Fury knows you’re capable,” Happy said at last. “He knows because Tony himself—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Peter said, gritting his teeth. “Tony—” His voice cracked. “Tony’s gone. Because of me.”

Happy slowly slumped forward in his seat, as though something had punctured a hole in him. “Don’t say that,” he said quietly. “He’s not gone because of—”

“He _is_ ,” Peter said, clenching his hand into a fist. “He—” He forced his eyes up at the roof of the jet. “I found out,” he managed. He ignored how his voice shook as he continued, “Morgan told me about how Tony used to look at this stupid picture of him and me.” Peter hated how much his eyes stung, and suddenly, Peter was tired. Tired of having to go through this again, tired of having people around him waiting for him to just start talking about _Tony_ when he _didn’t want to talk about Tony_ —not now, not ever, not while he—

“Everywhere I go, I see his face,” Peter said, dropping his head back down. He pushed his hands up to his face, rubbing the fist over his eyes. “And everywhere, I just have to get reminded that the reason why he’s not here is because he wanted to try—”

“To bring you back,” Happy interrupted. “Tony tried to bring everyone back.” He pointed a finger at Peter. “And he wanted to bring _you_ back because he wanted to bring back the people he cared about most.” As Peter opened his mouth to fire back a protest, Happy barreled on, “ _Peter_. Tony did what he did so you, along with everyone else, can finally come back. He did what he did because he _wanted_ you back, and he was willing to do anything he could for that.”

Peter stared down at his hands. “I just…” He closed his eyes. “I just really miss him.”

There was a silence.

And then, there was a sigh.

“I miss him, too.” Happy sounded tired—all the energy and fire from just a moment ago had been extinguished. “But you know—Peter.”

Peter forced his eyes open.

Happy smiled sadly at him, but this time, Peter wasn’t reminded of May or Ned. Happy’s smile didn’t carry the same kind of grieving weight May and Ned held; Happy’s smile seemed just worn, as though he had been trying to smile but had given up halfway a long time ago.

“I don’t think Tony would have done what he did if he didn’t know you were still gonna be here after he was gone,” Happy said quietly. “He had hope that you’d make it back and make things better.” He stood up. “Which is why he left you something.”

Peter blinked, a question just starting to form on his lips as Happy retreated to the back of the jet. Only, no, the back of the jet suddenly wasn’t just the back of the jet—instead, there was a circular opening into black as Happy walked backwards.

“Come on,” Happy said over his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you thought Tony didn’t leave you anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, reviews/constructive criticism are always appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have officially reached the half-way point of the story. After this chapter, we'll be jumping ahead to what might be the end of Far From Home. (Mostly because even I can't condense an entire movie into ten chapters, not with the actual movie coming out in literally six days.) I also have some bonus content on this story towards the end of this chapter for some lightheartedness. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Tony jerked awake to the sound of a mug hitting the workbench.

“You’ve been down here for the past eight hours,” Pepper said, scooting the steaming mug to Tony. Setting one hand on her hip, she asked, “Would you like to share what you’re working on?”

Tony took the mug and took one look at the orange liquid ( _orange_ ) before saying, “That’s not coffee.”

“You’re not drinking any caffeine while still recovering,” Pepper said, pushing the mug deeper into Tony’s hand. “You need all the sleep you can get. Clearly.” She reached forward to Tony’s cheek and plucked away a sticky note that had somehow sealed itself onto his skin.

“I am,” Tony insisted, but at Pepper’s disbelieved look, he took a quiet sip from the mug. “Chamomile,” he said, setting the mug back down. “Really trying to get me to sleep, aren’t you?” He glanced over at the nearest clock and added, “It’s not even five yet.”

“But you’ve been up since nearly five in the morning,” Pepper replied. She gestured at the mess of screens hovering before the two of them. “And judging by _this_ , you’re not planning on getting any long-term rest any time soon.” She looked down at Tony, her look a mixture of both amusement and annoyance. “You realize I was your assistant for _years_ , right?”

“And then CEO,” Tony reminded. “And then wife.”

“All to say that I know when you’re about to dig yourself into another hole,” Pepper replied. She picked up the mug and thrust it back at Tony. “Drink.”

Tony obediently took a sip just as Pepper asked, “What are you working on, anyways?”

Tony turned to the nearest screen. Still dark. “That’s a camera,” he said, pointing at the darkened screen. He pointed at the screen just next to it—blue, buzzing faintly with controls. “That’s going to be my command center for Peter.”

Pepper stilled. “For Peter?” she asked, dropping her arms to her sides. “What—”

“I’m not going to let the kid take on Fury’s suicide mission by himself,” Tony said, looking at the darkened camera screen. He tightened his grip around the handle of the mug. “You asked me what I was going to do about the communications ban. Well,” he said, setting the mug back down. “This is me doing something about it.”

“How?”

Tony tapped onto the control screen. “Let’s just say that Peter already knows that I like to play around with AIs.” He looked over at Pepper. Her eyes were shining—not with exasperation or grief this time, but with something that made Tony’s shoulders relax just the slightest. The way Pepper looked at him now—with some fierce understanding and relief—was just the sign Tony needed that _this_ was fine.

“I’m going to keep him safe, Pep,” Tony said. “Again.” He turned back to the camera. Then, murmuring to himself more than Pepper, “Who just knew I would have to do it so soon.” Tony felt Pepper’s hands on his shoulders. A tight squeeze, a brief reassurance. “Dinner’s in an hour,” she only whispered, and with a light kiss to his cheek, Pepper left Tony to the screens.

Tony leaned back in his seat. Holding the mug to his lips, he muttered, “C’mon, kid. You better show up.”

But a minute passed, and then another, and still, the camera didn’t brighten. Tony glanced down at his phone. The last message he had sent had been to Happy, asking how Peter was doing. Happy had only responded that Peter was on his way to his apartment, which Tony knew meant that Happy had gotten Peter into the jet. Tony had the idea that Fury might be tracking his text messages—or Happy’s messages, for that matter—just to make sure that neither of them got any ideas about contacting Peter.

But that message from Happy about Peter on the jet had been nearly an hour ago. By now, Tony figured, Peter would be in the lab. Or at least about to. Unless something went wrong.

The mug suddenly became too heavy for Tony to hold, and he set it down, sloshing some of the tea around. Nothing could have happened to the jet—that thing was protected, Tony knew. And Happy had seemed fine over the phone, so nothing could have happened to him. And if Peter was with Happy…

Still, a list of scenarios ran through Tony’s mind faster than he could control them. The pilot was an enemy. Peter backed out last second, and Happy’s phone went offline in the process. Peter refused to go anywhere near the lab. Peter didn’t want to go in the lab. Peter didn’t want anything, _period_.

The last scenario sank in Tony’s stomach like a rock. He imagined Peter standing to his feet, walking away from Happy, demanding that the jet be set back down.

Some small scrap of logic still working in Tony’s mind knew that Peter—Peter, the kid who still got excited at the first snow; Peter, the kid who got too nervous to eat potato chips during a movie because he thought he’d be too loud; Peter, the kid who apparently came to Tony’s house on the weekends to bake cookies with Morgan—couldn’t suddenly turn cold over the span of a few days.

And _yet…_

“Karen,” Tony called. “Any recent updates on Peter?”

“As suspected, Peter Parker has now changed into your older suit for him,” Karen replied.

Tony turned his eyes back to the camera. “Of course,” he murmured. “Anything else?”

“Not since his last patrol, no,” came Karen’s response.

“Was Naptime Protocol activated at any point?” Tony asked, dreading the answer.

“Once since your last check-up.”

Another alert on Naptime Protocol couldn’t possibly be enough to turn Peter’s head completely, could it? Tony rested his forehead against his hand. His hand felt cold. He reached blindly for the mug of tea. His fingers just hit the porcelain before the mug went flying off the workbench.

The shatter of porcelain against concrete sounded through the garage. Tony shifted his gaze to the ground, taking in the orange liquid that now steadily pushed itself out against the concrete. He let out a long, slow sigh.

“FRIDAY, where did I leave the paper towels?” Tony asked, stepping gingerly around the ever-growing puddle.

“They are on the workbench behind you.”

“Thanks,” Tony said, swiping the roll of towels. He started to duck down to the ground just before he noticed a flicker of white on one of the screens. Only when Tony pressed the paper towel to the first section of tea puddle did the sudden whiteness on the screen register in his head.

And then, a quiet, familiar voice asking from the camera, “What _is_ this place?”

And then Happy, “Tony figured you’d need something like this.”

Tony jerked his head up. “Peter,” he breathed. He practically lunged for his seat. He felt something sting his hand in the process, but Tony didn’t care, not when he saw Happy and Peter walking in front of the camera.

And there Peter was—curly hair shifting with each time he turned his head left, right, up, down to take in the lab. Lips slightly parted, dark eyes growing with each passing second. “How…?” He walked to one of the workbenches and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he swiped up on a screen. He examined the blue and white for a moment before asking, “Mr. Stark left me this?”

“He knew you’d want to keep working on some stuff,” Happy said, shrugging. He nodded at the workbenches and the little bots already circling around Peter in curiosity. “Knock yourself out, kid. Get yourself ready.”

Tony watched as Peter, as if in a trance, pressed his other palm against one of the screens. “Cool,” Peter whispered, and that was when Tony noticed the barest flicker of a smile bloom on Peter’s face. Tony couldn’t help but wonder when the last time Peter actually smiled as the boy toggled around the controls. Tony watched as Peter swiped at something on the screen. Then, tilting his head to the side, Peter mumbled something even the cameras couldn’t pick up.

This was where Tony came in.

Tony pressed his own hand against his own control board. He watched, his lips twitching into a smile of his own, as one of his bots drew near Peter. “Come on, kid,” Tony muttered under his breath, moving the bot to nudge Peter.

“What?” Peter asked, looking down at the bot. “Sorry, I’m a little busy.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “You can’t be too busy for me,” he muttered. “C’mon.”

The next few minutes was a blur of Tony (or the bot) guiding Peter from workbench to workbench, demonstrating which screen displayed what—which tools were best for which. Peter’s eyes lit up with the same awe and wonder that Tony remembered seeing when they were actually together, only not in that lab or even in this garage, but back five years ago—back in a different lab, back when Peter was still just fresh-faced and literally climbing up the walls and the ceiling.

“Alright, alright, thanks,” Peter said hastily. “I got it now.”

Tony scoffed to himself and leaned back in his seat. “Alright, then,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

And as Peter worked on his suit, Tony alternated between cleaning the rest of the puddle of tea, checking on Peter’s progress, and throwing away shards of the mug into a trash can. He watched, with both growing curiosity and pride, as Peter’s movements quickened. _That’s it,_ Tony couldn’t help but think.

He didn’t even notice that Morgan had snuck into the garage until she asked, “Do you want a Band-Aid?”

Tony jumped, banging his head against the workbench. “ _Ow_ ,” he grumbled, rubbing his forehead ruefully. He turned around, unsurprised to find Morgan giggling into her hand. “You know, I’m going to have to put a cowbell on you one of these days.”

“Mommy says it’s time for dinner.”

“Already?” Tony asked, glancing at the clock. “Can dinner wait a little?”

“Mommy says it’s time for dinner,” Morgan repeated, as though that repetition alone was enough—which it probably was. Morgan looked pointedly down at Tony’s hand. “Also, you need a Band-Aid.”

Tony looked down at his hand. “Right,” he said, observing the blood dripping from his palm. He must have gotten it from trying to clean up the mug earlier. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

“In a real minute or in a Daddy minute?” Morgan asked.

Tony held up a finger. “In a minute and a Daddy thirty seconds.”

“I’ll tell Mommy you’ll be up in five minutes,” Morgan said dutifully, and she ran out of the garage. Over her shoulder, she added, “And tell Peter that I like his suit!”

 _His suit?_ Tony looked up at the camera and, just as Morgan had said, Peter was looking at a diagram of a suit different from the other two that he used to wear. The spider and webbing pattern was the same, as were the eyes and the chest piece, but where there used to be blue and gold was now only black. At least, that was only the design. But as Tony zoomed in the camera, he could make out just the tiniest lettering indicating some new formulas and coding embedded within the suit itself. If Tony was reading the lettering correctly, then Peter had added some new surprises—something to do with flying popped up as one interesting element.

Tony smirked. No rockets, but he guessed some kind of flying squirrel tech was more likely Peter’s style.

But the suit was finished, and Peter looked back at his design with a mixture of his own pride and surprise. “I did it,” Peter whispered, staring at the screen. “Huh.”

Tony’s chest warmed. _Of course you did,_ he thought. If he could say it aloud to Peter right now, he would.

And that was when Tony remembered—he could.

Tony cleared his throat. Tried to keep his voice from shaking as he reached over and just barely managed to say, “Of course you did, kid.”

For a second, Peter stilled. He jerked his head up, his eyes roving around the lab.

Then, Peter whispered, “Mr. Stark?” Something inside Tony cracks and breaks and falls at Peter’s suddenly widened eyes, at the way Peter frantically searched the room as though Tony could walk out any second. “Mr. Stark?” Peter repeated, walking around the perimeter of the lab. He leaned against a wall, only just holding up his own weight as his head turned from side to side.

“At your service,” Tony replied, feeling a lump rise in his throat. He swallowed, but the lump had turned into a rock, and that rock had nestled itself deeper into a place where Tony couldn’t reach into. “Tony Stark programmed me into this lab and your suit.” Tony watched the light slowly fade from Peter’s eyes, and he wanted to reach through the screen and tell Peter that _he’s right here, he’s alive, he’s here, and he’s so proud_.

“Why’d…” Peter stumbled back a few steps, stared at the diagram of his new suit as though it was Tony himself. “Why’d you—he do that?” His voice wobbled. He reached for the diagram, only to let his hand stop short. It dropped limply to Peter’s side, and he crashed to the ground knees first. Tony knew it must have hurt—it _must_ have—but Peter didn’t cry out. Not a single sound came from Peter except for small, broken gasps as Peter’s shoulders trembled.

Tony pushed himself off his seat, ignoring the terrible screeching sound the legs of the chair made against the concrete. He brought a hand over his lips, tried to control his own breathing as his chest sucked in as much air as it could in this one moment. The room blurred before Tony’s eyes; Peter’s small form on the screen became a smudge as Tony forced his hand to catch the tears slipping from his eyes.

“Tony?”

Pepper’s voice was quiet, sad. “Oh, Tony…” she breathed, and Tony heard her footsteps draw near to him. Felt her arms wrap tightly around his middle, felt her head rest against his shoulder. “Can he hear me?” she whispered, and Tony knew she was watching Peter’s crumpled form on the camera.

“Not right now, he can’t,” Tony replied, taking in a long, shuddery breath. He opened his eyes and turned to Pepper. “I don’t know how to talk to him, Pep.” He let out a short laugh. It sounded bitter even to his own ears. “I don’t know how to…pretend I’m _not there_ when he’s…” He gestured to the screen. “Could you? Could _we_? If that was Morgan on the screen?”

Pepper’s eyes—deep blue, green—met Tony’s. “I don’t think we could,” she said. She turned to the screen. “Not in a million years.”

Tony turned his eyes up to the ceiling. “I could tell him,” he said. “Right now. I could just tell him, and I wouldn’t care if Fury got pissed at me—we could end this right now.”

“Tony.”

Tony turned to Pepper, and suddenly, he was reminded of another time: a time when they were both seated on a couch, Pepper with a book about composting, and Tony with a juice pop stick still in in between his teeth.

Only Pepper’s eyes had been darker then because of the dimness of the living room and the only source of light being the flicker of the flames in the fireplace. But now, under the bright fluorescents of the garage, Pepper’s eyes were brighter and lit with a different kind of energy.

“Would you be able to protect him?” Pepper asked, and her voice sounded just as broken as Tony felt. “With that threat Fury mentioned—would you be able to protect Peter the way you are right now?”

Tony turned back to the screen. To Peter.

“There will be a time for you to tell him the truth,” Pepper said. “But only when you two are both finally safe.”

Tony swallowed. “I just don’t want to lie to him,” he whispered.

“I know.” Pepper squeezed Tony’s hand and directed him to the screen. “So tell him something that isn’t a lie.”

Tony only barely nodded before leaning in. Taking a deep breath, he asked, “You still there, Peter?”

Peter lifted his head. Even from the camera, Tony could see the red streaking Peter’s eyes. Tony’s throat tightened. He felt for Pepper’s hand. “You wanted to know why Tony put me here,” he said, and saying his own name felt so foreign and so _wrong_.

When Peter didn’t say anything, just stared at the suit diagram, Tony dropped his head. He wished Peter could look up at the camera—look up and make eye contact with Tony. Not just make eye contact, but really _see_ him. _Hear_ him.

“He didn’t want you to be alone,” Tony said at last. “You won’t be facing dangers by yourself.” He lifted his head, watched Peter slowly stand up. “Understand, Peter? You won’t be alone.”

Peter walked up to the suit diagram.

“Peter?” Tony repeated.

Peter pressed his hand against the screen. Under the blue and white light, Tony saw it—the barest traces of a smile. A sad smile, but one nonetheless.

“I’m here,” Peter said. He paused. “Thanks, Tony.”

* * *

 

**INTERMISSION**

A camera focuses on TONY STARK. He is wearing his usual suit, and both of his hands are placed at his lap. However, while one hand is clearly flesh, the other is metal. TONY STARK smirks at the camera, but it quickly melts away into a semi-professional look as the interviewer sits down in front of him.

KR: So, Mr. Stark, congratulations. You’re alive. We see you’ve already updated your arm, as Fury predicted you would.

TS: Figured it was about time.

KR: Clearly. Right now, though, Mr. Stark, you’re in a rather interesting position. Despite Fury’s warnings, you’re in contact with Peter Parker.

TS: Indirectly.

KR: All the while pretending to still be dead. How do you plan on keeping up such a ruse?

TS: For as long as I need to. The minute the game is over—and it is, don’t give me that look—I’m dropping the disguise, whether Fury likes it or not. You can put that on the record.

KR: We will. But before Peter Parker goes off to Europe or fend off this mysterious new threat, don’t you think he’ll still come to your house to visit Morgan and Pepper? How will you act when he comes then? Or have you acted already?

TONY STARK looks visibly uncomfortable. He shifts in his seat, smiles briefly, clears his throat.

TS: There’s been some close calls.

KR: What kind of close calls?

TS: The kid can climb ceilings.

KR: …I see.

\--

The camera focuses on PETER PARKER. His knee is bouncing up and down, and he keeps flicking his eyes at the people standing behind the camera. There is mumbling from behind the camera, and the interviewer passes PETER PARKER a chocolate milk carton.

PP: Thanks. **sips** What is this for again?

KR: Just a small interview with superheroes after the events of the last year.

PP: Oh. Okay.

KR: So, Mr. Parker, how’re you feeling?

PP: Great. Everything’s great. The school trip is coming up. Ned’s excited, but I think he’s mostly excited because Betty’s coming. Did you know they’re dating now? I have no idea how that happened, but they just are. And MJ’s coming to the trip, too. She said she wouldn’t, but Ned told me she got her ticket as soon as he told her that I was going, but when I asked her about it, she just told me that she needed to make sure I wouldn’t get lost. Because I don’t think she’s gotten over the Decathalon yet.

KR: Looks like you’ve got a lot on your plate.

PETER PARKER takes another long sip from his milk carton. He opens his mouth to say something, but then, looking at the people standing behind the camera, closes it.

KR: You understand you’re allowed to talk about Nick Fury’s mission for you too, right? Since this is an interview for superheroes? Don’t worry, this interview will be all confidential.

PP: I dunno…Mr. Fury told me this mission was top secret. Sorry.

KR: That’s alright. Would you mind telling us a little bit about what you do in your free time then?

PP: Patrols, mostly. Um, homework. Hanging out with Aunt May and Ned. MJ and I went to a museum, but she mostly just went to draw people instead of looking at the actual statues. She told me that the museum curators actually washed away all the paint from the Roman and Greek statues, did you know that?

KR: I certainly didn’t. What else do you do in your free time?

PP: I babysit Morgan a lot. We were baking up some leftover cookie dough last weekend, and then she wanted me to climb on the ceiling. She wanted to take a video of me so she could show some of her friends, and I climbed all the way to the garage.

The interviewer now looks distressed.

KR: I see. Did anything happen?

PETER PARKER frowns.

PP: Now that I think of it, yeah. Kinda. Morgan kept telling me to come back, and she stopped the video. I thought I heard something below me, but before I looked, Morgan yelled that the cookies were going to burn. I don’t know what that thing was, and it was weird, because Morgan usually loves going to the garage, but…

[The camera briefly cuts to TONY STARK.

TS: I was working, and then I heard the door open. I thought it was Pepper, but when I turned around, no one was there. And then I saw Peter on the ceiling. He couldn’t see me—he was too busy looking back at the door to find Morgan, so I ducked under the work bench.

KR: Was it hard seeing him in person?

TONY STARK shifts his gaze to the ceiling. He doesn’t say anything.

The interviewer turns to the camera and subtly waves a hand. The gesture is clear. The camera shuts off.]

PETER PARKER now shrugs.

KR: Mr. Parker, may we ask you a serious question?

PETER PARKER blinks.

PP: I guess?

KR: If you could say anything to TONY STARK right now, what would you say?

There is visible arguing and whispering behind the camera. Someone clears a throat behind the interviewer, but the camera keeps rolling.

PETER PARKER, meanwhile, stares down at his hands.

PP: I…don’t know. I guess I’d…ask him if he was okay.

KR: And?

PP: …I’d ask him if I was doing the right thing. I don’t know. I’d tell him how great Morgan is. And his secret lab? Pretty cool.

The interviewer remains silent as PETER PARKER continues to mull the question over.

PETER PARKER’s voice is soft when he speaks next. There are several attempts for him to speak directly into his microphone so the cameras could pick up his voice.

PP: I’d tell him I miss him. A lot.

Someone taps the interviewer on the shoulder, but the interviewer doesn’t turn around. She bats the person away.

KR: Keep going, Peter.

PETER PARKER’s voice is quieter now, but the cameras only barely pick up what he says next.

PP: I’d ask him if he could come back.

The camera fades to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, reviews would be greatly appreciated! (The next few days are going to be a little bit of a doozy for me because I'm going to be starting my summer job. I will be surrounded by very tiny, very energetic children under intense heat. Send help.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I may end up updating either a few hours earlier/later than I normally would depending on my work schedule for the next two days or so, but these updates will always be daily! As I've hinted yesterday, this chapter (and the chapters from here on out) will be following the (predicted) end of Far From Home/after Far From Home.
> 
> Enjoy!

H

“Face it, Peter,” Mysterio said, hovering from somewhere above in the green mist. Peter pushed himself up to his feet, only to tumble right back down to the ground. He felt along his side, only to instantly be met with something warm and wet.

“Ouch,” Peter mumbled.

“You’re okay, kid,” Tony said. “Working on a sealing protocol right now.” It might have been Peter’s imagination, or it might have just been the sound of the nearest column breaking into smithereens, but the AI’s voice almost seemed to tremble in Peter’s ears.

“Thanks,” Peter only just had time to say before he heard the sudden thud of boots hitting the ground in front of him.

“You know, Peter, I like you,” Mysterio said, walking towards Peter. The man stopped right in front of Peter, and even without lifting his head, Peter knew that Mysterio was leering right down at him. “You’re a good kid, but you’re just a little naïve. Perfect for Fury to pick on, you know.” Faster than Peter could react, green tendrils wrapped around Peter’s middle. “I almost felt kind of bad for you, you know? Poor Peter Parker—no one to talk to, no one to lean on except for maybe a few school friends and an aunt. But what did they know?”

“Peter, you’ve got to get out. Use your webs,” Tony instructed, but the words drifted into the background as Peter’s eyes found Mysterio’s under the haze of green.

Peter was only somewhat aware of being lifted higher and higher into the air. He knew that any second now, he would come crashing back down to the ground, and a small part of Peter dreaded that—not because of the pain, but because of the chance that he might not get back up.

“What, no fight?” Mysterio called from below. “Gotta admit—that’s disappointing.”

Peter’s mind stretched past the rubble of the building around him, past the fires, past the dust and dirt and grime. His mind stretched to MJ and Ned probably scrambling through the hallways of the hotel when Peter didn’t return like he said he would. His mind stretched to May checking her phone to see if Peter would call her with an update on their trip. His mind stretched to Morgan, probably sitting outside the house and wondering if Peter was going to come back to bake the rest of the cookies.

Through the haze of pain and smoke, Peter wondered if this was what Tony thought of in his last moments. If Tony, too, saw Morgan and Pepper and Peter and everyone else before letting go. Peter wondered if Tony had felt sorry at all, because Peter did now, especially thinking about how he had promised MJ that they’d sit together the next time they would go to a theater. He had told Ned that yeah, they’d totally go out on double dates, and he’d told Morgan that next time he came to the house, they’d try swimming in the lake together.

All of those promises dissolved before Peter now as the ground hurtled towards him.

Peter hit the cement, saw white and black flash in front of him as he rolled over on his back. Peter heaved out a wet, heavy breath. He inhaled, exhaled before coughing something that clung to his throat. Peter tasted blood in his mouth. He heard Mysterio laugh softly behind him, but Peter couldn’t even turn around to see how close they were.

“Get up, Peter,” Tony said. “You need to get up right now.”

“Sorry,” Peter mumbled. He blinked up at where there used to be ceiling. Right now, all he could see were city lights, and Peter suddenly thought about how about a week ago—had it really just been a week?—he had been staring at the lights of his own city.

“Don’t say sorry,” Tony replied, and again, Peter wondered if maybe he was just too tired or if his AI’s voice was actually quivering. “Mysterio’s on your right. Roll.”

Peter only barely had enough strength to push his body out of the way as Mysterio’s boot slammed down to where Peter’s head had been just moments ago.

Mysterio laughed again. “So you do have some juice left in you,” he commented as Peter pushed himself up on his elbows. “Not a whole ton, but still a little. That’s refreshing.”

Peter wrapped an arm around his middle and scraped himself back a few inches as Mysterio towered over him. He saw the way Mysterio sneered down at him, saw Mysterio’s hands swirling with more green energy.

“You gonna let him just talk down to you like that?” Tony asked.

Peter stared up at Mysterio. At the man who, for the first time in what felt like forever, had actually listened to Peter. Had actually told him the best ways to attack. Had actually laughed at Peter’s jokes, told Peter that he was sorry for all his losses, let Peter breathe when Fury wouldn’t.

At this man who, now, looked down at Peter with curled lips and an almost satisfied expression, as though he knew—knew exactly that this would be how Peter would react.

Peter curled his hands into fists. Ignoring the pain screaming at his side, Peter shoved himself up to his feet. Swallowing back the blood, he managed, “You’re wrong.” He grounded his feet. “I’m up.”

And then Peter launched himself at Mysterio. He felt Mysterio give out from underneath him, felt the crack of Peter’s own knuckles against Mysterio’s face. The sound of muscle hitting muscle, breath against breath, bone against bone distanced itself from Peter’s ears, and all that existed was Peter and this person who had tricked Peter into thinking that time and space could heal.

Peter didn’t know when he had ever used his actual fists to fight someone, but this was all that mattered now—Peter, ducking and rolling as Mysterio reached up to wrap an arm around his neck. Peter, on the ground, twisted his legs around Mysterio’s ankle and yanked. He rolled out of the way just as Mysterio hit the ground, and before he could get caught in another grip, Peter shot a length of webbing up to the nearest remnant of ceiling.

“Nice trick, Peter,” Mysterio said, spitting as he stood up to his feet. “But I’m still going to win. Do you know why?”

“He talks too much,” Tony commented.

“You talk too much!” Peter shouted, swinging down from the webbing. He aimed his feet for Mysterio’s head, but at the last second, Mysterio dove out of the way. Peter’s feet found empty air, and for a moment, he was just crashing into empty air until Peter swung himself up to another part of the ceiling. This part of the ceiling, however, was still crumbling, and Peter’s webbing stuck only for a moment before giving way.

“Wings, Peter,” Tony barked (if AIs could even bark, Peter thought), and Peter spread out his arms just in time for himself to glide to the ground. Only too late, Peter remembered his side, and as soon as he landed, Peter stumbled forward a few steps before crashing back to the cement.

“You’re injured,” Mysterio taunted from behind. “And you forget, Peter…”

Peter looked up in time to see the familiar green mist swirling around him, only thicker than before. Peter swallowed and whirled around, expecting to see Mysterio before him, but the man had disappeared into the vapors.

“Where are you?” Peter growled, whipping his head around the mist. “Come out!”

“What do you mean, Peter?”

Peter stilled. Everything was suddenly too cold and too hot at once; the air suddenly was too much and too little for Peter’s lungs. He slowly turned around and saw something—no, someone walking out of the mist.

“I’m right here, Peter,” Tony Stark said, stretching out a hand towards Peter.

Peter’s throat constricted. He stared up at Tony, at the cocky half smile he always wore, at the lines curling around the corners of his eyes. Tony’s hand edged closer to Peter. “What are you doing in this mess?” Tony asked, and he dropped to a knee in front of Peter. “You look like you’ve seen hell.”

Peter blinked. “Mr. Stark?” he whispered. He stared down at Tony’s hand. A hand that was perfectly whole, practically glowing with health. Alive.

“In the flesh,” Tony replied. He tilted his head at Peter. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I—” Peter stumbled forward, but he missed Tony’s hand. “You—”

“Peter.”

Peter blinked. He heard Tony again—but Tony in front of him hadn’t moved his lips at all.

“Peter, it’s me,” Tony said, and Peter blinked again. The AI.

“What’s wrong, Peter?” Tony asked in front of Peter, his hand still waiting.

“I—” Peter repeated, but his AI was already speaking again.

“Peter, you have to listen to me,” the AI said. “That’s not really Tony. Do you understand?”

Peter stared at the man in front of him. At his hand. At his smile.

“That’s not really Tony Stark,” the Ai said, and there was the tremor again. “Peter, it can’t ever be actually Tony Stark.”

“I don’t understand,” Peter whispered.

“It’ll be okay, kid,” Tony in front of Peter said. His eyes were warm. “I’ll explain later.”

“He won’t!” the AI shouted, and Peter winced at the sudden volume. “He won’t explain, Peter, because he’s just one of Mysterio’s tricks! He’s an illusion! A fake!”

Peter’s head was spinning. He couldn’t remember Karen ever getting this energetic—or FRIDAY, for that matter. He stood shakily up to his feet. “You can’t know,” he whispered, dazed. “You’re just a machine.” He stared at Tony, aching all over. Wanting to take this Tony’s hand, but something kept his hands at his sides still.

“I’m not a machine!” the AI exploded. “I’m Tony! Your Tony! I’m alive, Peter!”

A chill ran up Peter’s spine. “What—” he started, but the voice in his suit was speaking fast now, no longer speaking in its usual succinct manner, but running and tumbling over its own words like they couldn’t come out fast enough.

“I’m here, Peter,” the voice in Peter’s suit said. “I’m in the garage right now—right now. I’ve been here this whole time. I’m alive, and I’m here, and you’re not alone in this fight because I’m right here with you.”

Peter’s eyes stung, though if that was from tears or sweat, he couldn’t tell. “I can’t…” he whispered, swaying on his feet. “AIs shouldn’t…”

“I’m not an AI!” the voice shouted. “I know that you bake cookies with Morgan! I know that your aunt brought food over while I was gone! I know that you make pop culture references even in the middle of missions, and I know that you like your sandwiches cut diagonally, and I know that you’re allergic to peanuts but want to eat peanut butter cups anyways, and I know that you always apologize for everything, and I know you.” There was silence, and Peter thought—for a brief moment—that he heard heavy breathing, though it wasn’t coming from himself.

“I know you,” the voice repeated, and this time, Peter definitely didn’t imagine the break in the words. “You got mad at me once in New York, do you remember that? You said that if I had just been listening to you, then things wouldn’t get as bad as they did.”

Peter’s head spun. He stared at the man in front of him and took a small step back. “Tony,” he whispered, lifting a hand to the side of his head. “I don’t…”

“When the aliens first came down to steal our wizard friend, you said, ‘I’m being beamed up’,” the voice went on. “I got mad at you because you tried to blame me for being able to get on the spaceship so easily.”

Peter crashed against a wall. He stared down at the man in front of him, saw the man’s smile flicker. “You’re not Tony,” he whispered to the man.

“He’s not,” the voice in Peter’s suit continued. “He’s not because he wouldn’t know that you apologized to me like an idiot on that last day. He wouldn’t know a single thing about you, Peter. Because he’s not me. He’s not real.”

Peter steeled himself as the man in front of him slowly dissolved into mist.

“But I am,” the voice in Peter’s suit sad. “I’m real, Peter. I’m alive. And we’re doing this together, kid. You and me.”

Peter closed his eyes. And then, bracing himself, whispering hopes to himself, he let out a single word—a single question—fall from his lips:

“Tony?”

And the answer came back, quieter—but faster—than ever before:

“I’m right here, Peter.”

Peter opened his eyes. He glared into the green mist. “Okay,” he whispered. “We’re doing this.”He short webbing straight into the center of the vortex of the swirling mist and let himself fly straight forward until his feet found something solid—that something solid being Mysterio’s chest. The man grunted beneath Peter and stumbled backwards.

“Nice shot, kid,” Tony said. “But we want to web him up.”

“Working on that!” Peter replied, shooting up to the ceiling as Mysterio lifted his head.

“So Tony Stark is alive,” Mysterio murmured, floating upwards. Peter swallowed and threaded backwards. “How touching.” He tilted his head to the side, examining Peter, as though that alone could somehow find Tony. “Is be listening to us right now?”

“Yes, unfortunately for him,” Tony said. “Pete, you’re going to need more space to get the jump on him.”

“Is he telling you what to do right now?” Mysterio asked as Peter flicked his eyes to the opening in the ceiling. Mysterio made a small tsking sound, almost sounding disappointed. “Do you do anything for yourself?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Tony said. “He’s trying to distract you.”

“I know,” Peter muttered, but he hated how Mysterio smiled knowingly at him. Peter wondered if Mysterio actually could hear Tony through the suit.

“Come now, Peter—you’re almost an adult now. Surely, you can think for your own?” Mysterio leveled his hands in front of him. One eyebrow tilting in amusement, he said, “I came here to fight Spider-Man, after all. Not Ironman.” He twisted his wrists, a new wave of green energy vibrating in his hands. As though sensing the fight about to begin, the entire building groaned. More parts of the ceiling crashed to ground, and Peter wobbled with the quakes as Mysterio remained unmoved in front of him.

“You don’t have to prove anything to him, Peter,” Tony said. “Just find some place open.”

Another part of the ceiling crumbled apart. Peter stares at the bit of ceiling he had tried to stick before. Cracks still ran through the white material, but even from here, Peter could see how unstable the whole structure was. For a second, Peter is as reminded of another time when the building shook around him. How the only reason he had gotten out was because of his own strength.

Peter stared at Mysterio. “You’re right,” he said.

“Peter,” Tony started to say, but Peter straightened his back. He hoped Tony was watching—hoped that Tony trusted him enough to do this.

“I’m not Ironman,” Peter said. “That spot’s already taken.” He shot out his hand and let a price of webbing fly to the part of crumbling ceiling. Mysterio whirled around to look at where the web hit and relaxed.

“The truth is,” Peter said, smiling as Mysterio turned back around at him, “I am Spider-Man.”

He yanked back his web, and the entire chunk of ceiling crashed into Mysterio. Peter dove out of the way just in time for the rest of the ceiling to crumble apart. He heard a sharp cry of pain from somewhere beneath him and looked down to find Mysterio pinned down by whole parts of plaster and cement.

Peter’s head spun as he lowered himself to the ground. He stared at Mysterio’s blood-streaked face, at the odd angles his arms were bent in. He couldn’t bring himself to look down at Mysterio’s legs, which he figured were probably crushed.

And still, Mysterio looked back up at Peter and smiled. “Gotta admit,” he whispered, shining his blood-stained teeth at Peter. “That was impressive.”

“He needs to shut up,” Tony said. “Back out, Peter. Fury’s already on his way.”

But Peter only stared back at Mysterio. “I didn’t want it to be impressive,” he just said.

“Maybe,” Mysterio mused. “Which would make sense why your little trick just isn’t impressive enough.”

Before Peter could understand what was going on, Tony shouted, “Back away, Pete!” But then the world was swirling with green fog again, and Peter felt something dig deep into his side. He looked down slowly, only just barely registering a long, thin blade before sinking to his knees. Peter stared down at the blood slowly making its way down his side, at the way his hands came away wetter than before.

“Tony,” Peter whispered. “I think...”

“You’re good, kid,” Tony said, but Peter heard the edge of panic in his voice. Peter suddenly remembered stumbling towards Tony on a different moon as bots and pieces of him dissolved. “You’re good,” Tony repeated. “Just stay awake. Got it, kid? Eyes open now.”

But as Tony spoke, Peter sank deeper into the ground. He didn’t even know his head was on the ground until he registered the city lights above him that had somehow migrated to this new gap in the ceiling. He wished he was home.

“Peter,” Tony repeated. “You have to stay awake.”

Peter closed his eyes briefly, let them open. He imagined Tony sitting in the garage, maybe, probably scrambling around the workbenches, and Peter’s chest aches. Too bad—he had really wanted to see Tony again.

“‘m sorry, Tony,” Peter mumbled.

“No,” Tony said. “Peter, you’re not apologizing again.” His voice sounded so close in Peter’s ears. “Do you understand me? No more apologizing. Not now. Not ever. Come on, kid. Stay awake.”

Peter blinked up at the city lights, which no longer seemed as bright as they had been before. His mind traveled to Tony. “‘m sorry,” Peter repeated, and let the darkness close in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case ya'll didn't know that everyone pretty much thinks Mysterio is going to betray Peter (because of the comics? I've never read the comics, but apparently, that's what happens), well...you guys do now! As always, reviews/constructive criticism are greatly appreciated, especially since we already (already?!) have four chapters left!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

"I knew this was going to happen," Tony said, sticking a finger at Fury's chest. "I _knew_ Peter would get hurt, and what did you do? _What did you do?_ "

Fury looked down at where Tony's finger was pressed against his chest. "As of right now, we've got our best doctors working on Peter," he said, knocking away Tony's hand. "And in case you've forgotten, _Mr. Stark_ , that was our doing, not yours." His eyes bore into Tony's, unshaken. "Meanwhile, I could ask of you the same thing. What did you do after I _specifically_ told you to stay out of this mission?"

Tony rolled his eyes up at the ceiling. "If you seriously thought I was about to listen to you about _that_ , then you deserved to have this coming." He lifted his hands, dropped them back to his sides. "Have I _ever_ actually listened to you?"

"I can count on one hand of the times you have," Fury replied.

"Well, I wasn't going to listen when it came to _this_ stuff—not _family_." At the single raise of Fury's eyebrow, Tony nodded. "You heard me right. Peter Parker?" He jabbed his finger at the white door in front of them. "You don't touch Peter Parker. The kid was already a part of the family."

"That's touching, Stark," Fury said, but he didn't sound impressed, not that Tony expected him to. "But in case you haven't noticed, Peter would have been safer from Mysterio if you hadn't interfered."

" _How?_ " Tony shouted, his voice echoing down the hallway.

"He managed to defeat Mysterio based on his own plan, didn't he?" Fury asked, crossing his arms. "He could have listened to you, even after you pulled that 'I'm alive' stunt—which, by the way, might have distracted him. But he didn't." Not it was Fury's turn to point at Tony. "The kid's smarter than you give him credit for, Stark. Stronger, too."

Tony let out a breath. "I know he's smart," he said. "And strong. But he's still a kid. You just said t yourself." He looked up at Fury. "No kid should be allowed to face off some villain without someone in his corner."

Before Fury could respond, a different shout sounded through the hallway.

"What…" Fury started to say, and Tony and he turned only just in time to see May Parker barreling down the hallway towards them, her hands clenched into fists.

"I can't _believe_ you two!" she shouted, storming towards them. She came toe to toe with Fury, pointing a finger up at his face with a kind of rage Tony had seen Pepper wear when he had nearly blown up the garage. "Trip to Europe, my ass," she hissed. "You think I don't see the news? I saw the news, buddy, and as soon as Peter told me he was working with _Nick Fury_ , I thought—what did I think?—I thought, 'well, maybe Peter will come back in one piece', but then I get a _call_ telling me Peter's _not_ in one piece _—"_

Tony wondered whether to stay and enjoy the show of May Parker getting angry at Nick Fury or simply slink away, but before he could do anything, May whirled around and cried, "And _you!_ "

Tony met Fury's eyes from over May's shoulder. Fury, looking like he had just been in a hurricane (which Tony supposed he technically just had), only lifted his shoulders.

"It's been a while," Tony managed to say, looking back at Peter's aunt. "How're you doing, May?"

"Oh, don't you start," May growled. "How _dare_ you go off and _die_ and come back expecting Peter to be fine? What the hell were you doing, pretending to be some robot in his suit? If you're Tony effing _Stark_ , and if you could go zoom around the city in a suit, _and_ if you can somehow survive multiple alien and robot invasions, then you can get off your techy high horse and tell my nephew the _truth!_ "

Tony blinked. He looked again to Fury, but he man shook his head. Tony looked again at May. "Listen," he started to say, but one look from May forced his mouth shut.

"Right now," she said in a low voice, looking at both Fury and Tony, "I want to see my nephew."

A beat of silence passed. Two. Tony looked at Fury, who looked at May, who glared at both Tony and Fury. May crossed her arms across her chest and, tilting her chin, said icily, "I'll wait."

The seconds ticked by. Tony wondered if May had ever been a teacher or, at the very least, a substitute teacher before, because suddenly he was reminded of being stuck in a classroom with a stern, annoyed adult standing in the front as students slowly settled down. Tony also suddenly realized why Peter would definitely had never been able to keep a secret around this woman.

Then, without batting an eye, Fury gestured to the door. "Ladies first," he said and stepped away.

"Thank you," May said stiffly, and shooting the two men another suspicious glare, she strode through the door. Tony moved after her, but Fury stuck out an arm in front of him.

"What?" Tony snapped.

"Let his aunt see him first," Fury said. "Give them a few minutes."

"If I knew that May Parker was all it took for you to suddenly show some respect for the kid, then I should have dragged her in a long time ago," Tony muttered, but he stood back. He stared at the door and, after a moment, he said, "I still think I'm right, though. You shouldn't have involved Peter in this."

"What a funny coincidence," Fury said, not looking at Tony. "I still think I'm right, too. You shouldn't have made yourself into a supposed addition to Parker's new suit."

"I was protecting him."

"You were distracting him," Fury said. "He thought you were dead—"

"Because _you_ let him think that," Tony interrupted, turning to face Fury. "You made _everyone_ think I was dead and not coming back. If Peter knew I was alive in the first place, then I wouldn't have needed to step in like I did." Tony lifted up his hands. "I was pigeon-holed in, and I found my next best way out."

Fury breathed in deeply. He still wasn't looking at Tony. "Stark," Fury said tiredly, "if the timing wasn't right."

"Since when did timing ever matter?" Tony muttered.

"Since we almost lost you," Fury replied. Now Fury tilted his head to look at Tony. "You may be alive right now, Tony, but when we got your body back here, you were as good as dead. Mysterio was on the rise. Our people had been catching him flit in and out of her universe for some time now, and right after Thanos, he was the last thing we needed." Fury crossed his arms. "He knew our Earth long enough to know of her heroes, and we knew that he would probably figure out about you sooner or later." His eye bore into Tony's face. "For the time being, it was best for everyone to assume you were already dead."

"So Mysterio wouldn't get me."

"So Mysterio wouldn't get you," Fury agreed. He nodded his head at the door. "I wanted to get someone else. Trust me, a kid wasn't my first choice—but the thing is, I wasn't left with any other options. All I knew was that you couldn't fight, but you trained the hell out of someone who could. And he did." Although Fury's face remained as expressionless as ever, he said, "You should be proud of him." He gestured at the door. "Figured we've given the Parkers enough time. You should go in there."

Tony cast Fury a sidelong look. "You're not coming in?"

"Does it look like I have time to be sentimental?" Fury asked. He shook his head. "I've got some other matters to attend to."

And yet, when Tony opened the door, Fury said loudly—loud enough undoubtedly for Peter to hear: "Just tell the kid that he did a good job."

—

The door slid shut behind Tony.

And for what felt like a long time, no one spoke. Not May, who sat next to Peter with one hand on top of his hand. Not Tony, whose feet felt stuck to the ground. And certainly not Peter, whose wide eyes took in Tony like he might vanish. A similar stare, Tony couldn't help but think, that Morgan held when she had first come into Tony's own room.

Then, just barely able to keep his voice above a whisper, Tony managed, "Peter."

"Tony?" Peter called, his voice hoarse, as though he hadn't spoken in a long time. He looked at Tony up and down, his eyes tracing Tony's face, then to the metal arm. Peter's face crumpled. "Are you…" Peter blinked back up at Tony. "Are you okay?"

Tony let out a small laugh, but that didn't keep the tears from springing into his eyes. He smiled as Peter blurred briefly in front of him. "Seriously," he said, "you're the one in bed, and you want to ask me if _I'm_ okay?" He shook his head. "I'm fine, kid."

"But I thought…" Peter looked at May, as though for confirmation, and then he looked back at Tony. "You were dead." And Tony felt a heavy weight settle on his chest because Peter was still staring at him with the same anxiety that Tony would leave. Peter blinked once, twice, three times, and then he was blinking frantically, tear after tear sliding down his face. "I felt you die."

Tony's heart clenched. "I was," he said quietly, looking down at the foot of Peter's bed. "Maybe. For a short while. And then I wasn't." When Peter didn't say anything, Tony lifted his gaze up to face him. "I wanted to tell you," Tony said, his throat feeling raw against the words. "You have to believe me, Peter. Out of everyone, I wanted to tell you the most."

"Why didn't you?" Peter whispered. He ducked his head for the first time, and Tony felt something in him crack. "Why couldn't you?"

Tony closed his eyes briefly. He was suddenly back in the garage again, staring at the camera. Looking at Pepper, telling her that he could end this stupid charade right now if he wanted to. Tell Peter the truth. To hell with Fury and all.

"I wouldn't be able to keep you safe," Tony said at last. He opened his eyes and found Peter's head still turned down. _Please look up,_ Tony thought.

"Please look up," Tony whispered. "Peter."

Peter rose his head slowly. His dark eyes were rimmed with red, the only other color on his otherwise pale face.

"Everything I do," Tony said, "is to protect the ones I care about. My friends." Then, quieter, "My family." Tony gestured a trembling hand towards Peter. "That includes you—always." Tony dropped his hand before it could shake any harder. "Always," Tony repeated. He looked over at May, whose face had softened. "That includes you, too, May," Tony added. "Under the Stark protection program now."

Although he hadn't meant the words to be humorous, May laughed—a gentle, quiet sound that broke across the heavy, suffocating blanket of silence in the room. "Trust me, Stark," she said, looking to Peter. "I had a feeling Peter had been under your little program for a while now." Tony saw May squeeze Peter's hand, saw the way May tilted her head at Tony when Peter turned to look at her.

Peter, as though slowly coming out of a dream, looked back at Tony. Finally, he whispered, "This isn't a trick, right? You're here for sure, right?" Before Tony could react, Peter slid off the bed. Tony took a hurried step forward, already about to warn Peter from moving, but Peter took one shaky step after the other away from the bed. One of Peter's hands clung onto May's, while the other reached outward.

Towards Tony.

"Tell me you're actually here," Peter said, his voice cracking. "You're not just some bot." His hand stretched forward, reaching, searching—and then Peter stumbled forward with a sharp cry. Tony heard May yell out in surprise, heard Peter's hitched breath, heard himself call Peter's name, and then Tony stumbled forward, grabbing Peter's other hand.

Peter looked up, eyes wider than Tony had ever seen them.

"Not a bot, kid," Tony said. He stretched out his palm against Peter's, felt Peter's cold—too cold—hand press against his warm one. "Too alive to be one."

Peter stared at their hands, then he stared up at Tony. And slowly, a trembling smile bloomed across Peter's face. "Tony," was all Peter said before burying his head into Tony's shoulder.

Tony grunted on impact, but as Peter's arms slung themselves around his middle, Tony could only close his eyes and wrap his arms around Peter, who was finally here and present—and Tony, who was finally here and present.

There was a distant snap of a camera, and when Tony opened his eyes, he saw May pocketing her phone with a small wink and a smile.

Tony managed the briefest of smiles back before letting himself rest in the fact that finally, his family was whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we get closer to the Far From Home release day, I think now would be a good time for me to warn that no one spoil the actual movie in the comments until at least a few weeks after the movie's out. I know the movie's not out now, but just in case. I'm sure ya'll know the common courtesy of fandom, but just in case!
> 
> As always, reviews/constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated, especially as we edge nearer and nearer to the end of the story!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more chapters after this left! What?!
> 
> Enjoy!

"You should be out of here soon," May said, sitting down next to Peter. She opened a large paper bag, instantly filling the room with the smell of spices and oil. Passing Peter a hot plastic carton of what he knew was Thai food, May added, "The doctors said that you heal up faster than the average human being, given your abilities and all." May pressed her own carton to her lap and, searching Peter's face, she asked, "And how're you feeling?"

Peter popped open the lid of the food and shrugged. "Fine, I guess," he said, looking around for a pair of chopsticks. A pair appeared under his nose, and Peter shot May a brief smile. "Thanks." He stuck the chopsticks in the pile of noodles and twisted them hard enough to hear the slight squish of oil against plastic.

"Fine?" May repeated. She hadn't opened her own container yet. "Fine like _fine_ , or fine like 'I don't want to talk about it' fine?"

Peter twirled the chopsticks again around his wrist, observing how the strands of noodles grew to the size of a small rock. "I dunno," he said. He lifted the small mound of noodles to his mouth and, taking a large bite, he added around his chewing, "Mostly tired. Kinda bored." He swallowed, feeling a slight pain at the back of his throat at the sensation of too much food going down. "Maybe a little worried. I told MJ and Ned…"

"I've already let them know you're safe and recovering," May said quickly. "They're annoyed they can't see you yet, but it'll just be a few days before you guys can get back together." She cast Peter an almost sly smile. "MJ seems nice, too. Shy—but nice."

Peter thought about MJ's small smile in the theater, how she had told him (while staring very intensely at the ceiling) that she would like to "hang out" a little more with him over the summer. And then Peter remembered how Ned had slapped Peter a high-five and said (very seriously), "Now you gotta come back."

"There's the smile," May said. Peter heard her pop open her container of food and then, cracking open her own pair of chopsticks, she added, "Happy says hello, by the way. And he's glad you're safe, too."

Now it was Peter's turn to cast May a sidelong look, but his aunt was busy bunching up noodles around chopsticks. Although May's expression remained completely neutral, Peter detected the slightest tint of pink in her cheeks. Peter returned to his own food, mulling over the idea of Happy suddenly frequenting the apartment more often and decided that was a whole other thing to deal with later.

For now, though, Peter picked up another bunch of noodles. One noodle slipped down to the container, while another hung precariously from the edges of his chopsticks. He let that noodle drop, too, and he set his chopsticks back down on the carton.

"Do you want to talk now?" May asked.

Peter looked down at his food. "I'm just trying to process everything," he said. He fiddled with the edge of his chopsticks, shifted a pile of noodles around the wood. "Mysterio. Europe." He pushed one of the piles to the side of his carton. "Mr. Stark."

He turned to May. "I just…" He felt like there was a wad of food still stuck in his throat. "I miss him—missed him. And now he's back." He tightened his grip on his chopsticks. "Is it bad that I still feel…" He let go of his chopsticks and let his hand drop to the bed. "I don't know."

"Are you mad?" May asked softly.

Peter lifted his shoulders. "That's just it," he replied. "I don't think I'm mad, but I'm not happy, either." He brushed his fingers over his chopsticks, and thinking better of it, let his hand drop back down to his lap instead. "I'm glad Mr. Stark's alive, and I know what he said yesterday, but there's just…"

There was a silence.

And then, squeezing his hand, May said, "It sounds like that's something you and Mr. Stark will have to talk about when he gets back."

"Do you think he'd listen?" Peter asked, and even though he already knew what May was going to say, he still felt something nestle into place as she let out a small, albeit tired, laugh.

"He'd always listen to you, Peter."

—

Peter swung his legs off the top of the medical facilities, letting his ankles thump halfheartedly against the concrete. He figured the doctors would probably panic if they came to check on him, which was why Peter left a quick note explaining he had just gone out to get some fresh air. Either way, Peter figured he probably only had a few minutes before the alarms would go off.

Peter leaned back on his hands and tilted his head up to the sky. The occasional cloud passed by, but otherwise the skies were a clear blue with only the barest tints of orange as the sun made its descent. Peter didn't know exactly where the medical facilities were located, but as he surveyed the mass of evergreens and firs sitting below him, Peter wondered if he was back in the states. Probably back in New York somewhere, considering how fast Tony and May were at his side.

Peter took in a deep breath, letting his lungs fill with pine and soil-scented air. He slowly lowered himself on his back and closed his eyes as a breeze sped past him. He heard crickets chirp, a bird twitter past, the distant hum of an airplane from somewhere far, far, far above him.

Then, keeping his eyes closed, Peter asked, "How'd you find me?"

Peter felt Tony sit down next to him, felt Tony's body heat literally inches from his head as the man replied, "Found your note. Knew you have a fondness for rooftops."

Peter opened his eyes. Tony was looking straight at the horizon, his face washed the same rosy colors of the sun making its fiery journey past the clouds. Back during the battle, Peter had noticed the newfound grey and almost golden streaks in Tony's hair—had noticed that Tony had aged since the dusting, but right now, under the glow of the sun, those subtle shades in Tony's hair suddenly seemed to lighten further.

"What?" Tony asked, his eyes still focused on the horizon.

Peter forced his eyes skyward. "Nothing," he said in a small voice.

"Sure."

Peter started to push himself up, but before he could rise to a full sitting position, he felt Tony's hand pressed to his back—a gentle support, a gentle push so Peter could sit up straight. "You feeling any better?" Tony asked, looking down at Peter's side as though expecting the bandages underneath his shirt to split open any second. "Any pain?"

"Not a whole ton," Peter replied. Still, he wrapped an arm protectively over his middle. He traced the outlines of the bandages under his shirt and let his fingers drop. "May said that the doctors think I'll be better soon. Super healing and stuff."

Tony huffed out something that might have either been out of exasperation or relief, though Peter couldn't be sure. Maybe both.

"How's Morgan?" Peter asked, and he wished he could have asked something more meaningful—or just something _more_ , but the question came and hung in the air in between Tony and him like a weight. "And Ms. Potts?"

"They're both fine," Tony replied. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of blue construction paper. Peter made out Morgan's scribbled handwriting and a few stick figures on one side. "Morgan made you a 'get well soon' card." Tony passed it over to Peter.

Peter opened the card and, the corners his lips twitching just in the slightest, he read Morgan's Crayon-smelling words: _Get well soon, Peter! I'm saving you cookies. Love, Morgan_

"That's nice of her," Peter said, closing the card carefully so to not wrinkle it.

"She made five cards before that one," Tony said. "She trashed all of them after deeming them unworthy." The barest notes of amusement trickled into his voice as Tony added, "She takes after her mom that way." Then, after a beat of silence, "And me, too. Really our kid." He cleared his throat. "And she wants you at her birthday party next month. I told her you would, so I hope you don't have any plans."

Peter's throat tightened. "'Course," he murmured. "Wouldn't miss it."

A heartbeat of silence passed. Two, three, four.

And then, with a sigh, Tony said, "You want to say something." No questioning note in his voice, no curiosity. Just a matter-of-fact statement.

Peter curled his fingers over the card. "Do you blame me for wanting to?" he asked.

"You kidding me?" Tony snorted. "No one in the world can blame you."

Peter smoothed out a crease on the card. He swung his legs a little harder from the edge of the rooftop, just enough for the thump of his ankles against the concrete to jolt him into feeling more solid—feeling something against him, period. "I guess what I want to say is," Peter started to say, and then he stopped. Something sat on his chest, hard and unmoving.

"Peter?"

Peter opened his mouth, closed it. He lifted his gaze at the edge of the horizon, right where the sun was meeting the tops of the trees. Another breeze rustled through the tree branches and reached up to Peter and Tony.

The breeze suddenly felt too strong—suddenly felt more like a hard wind securing that heavy thing on Peter's chest. Peter remembered the cold winters in New York. He remembered how sometimes, the wind would blow so hard that he'd be left gasping for breath.

"Peter." Tony's voice broke through the breeze, through the silence. "You can tell me."

Peter released a breath, but it felt more like a gasp or a grapple for air. "It was all my fault," he said, gripping the card. "You died, and it was all my fault." The card swam in and out of focus in front of Peter. Solidified, melted, turned into vapor, and then solidified again. The stick figures were nothing more than fuzzy lines on a blue blotch. "You said you wanted to protect the ones you care about." He squeezed his eyes shut to keep the blurriness in his vision from distorting too much. "If you have to die to protect someone, then…" Peter remembered the long nights sitting in front of murals, the way the air seemed to suck out of a classroom after looking at a poster. "I just wish you didn't at all."

Those last words rang in the air, met the trees and the clouds and the sun and the sky and Tony, who Peter knew had turned to him now. Peter bunched his shoulders together, waiting for the vibrations of his words to finally take hold; he waited for the words to finally hit them both.

"Peter," Tony whispered, and Peter opened his eyes. Through the fog of dropping tears, Peter made out Tony's reddened eyes. Tony pushed a hand up to his face, wiped at his eyes. "Peter," Tony repeated, and then, he wrapped an arm around the top of Peter's shoulders.

Peter let himself fall right into Tony's side, let himself tremble under the weight of everything— _everything_ —in the last month.

"Nothing was ever your fault," Tony said. "What happened will _never_ be your fault." Tony was shaking too, Peter realized, which only made Peter sink deeper into Tony's grip. Peter felt Tony take in a long breath, and Peter wondered if maybe, this was one of the first breaths Tony had taken in a while. "When you died—got dusted, I thought it was all my fault."

Peter stiffened. He looked up at Tony, stricken. "It wasn't," Peter said quickly. "Mr. Stark, you—"

"It didn't matter," Tony replied. "You were gone. That was all that felt real." He looked back down at Peter, and for a second, Peter saw exactly what Tony looked like after he must have been dusted. Tired. Sad. Hopeless.

"When I got you back," Tony said, "I just knew that something was falling back into place." Tony patted Peter once on the back. "So that's all that we've got left to do now. Fall back into place. It's not going to be a quick and easy fix, but we'll get there. Right?"

And then Peter saw exactly how Tony had looked when Peter came out of Dr. Strange's portal. With the last of the sun streaming behind the trees and the hope etched in Tony's eyes, Peter saw the first glimmers of something new—something infinite and brave and stretching out before the two of them.

"We'll get there," Peter agreed, and that heavy thing at the top of Peter's chest slid away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, reviews/constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated!
> 
> I also just want to add that I'm so incredibly thankful for all of you guys who have taken the time to leave a comment or follow/fave or even send me a private message about this story. I cannot tell you how much those little notifications mean to me, especially when I'm in my lows. All of you people are super amazing!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently, people have already seen Far From Home (from the premier) and already released spoilers online. In case anyone is worried, I've heard that most of the spoilers are on certain tumblr blogs/reddit threads, so if you don't want spoilers (like moi), I'd avoid those sites!
> 
> Enjoy!

**NINE.**

“You ready for this?” Pepper asked, sliding her hand up Tony’s necktie. “Did you look at the cards at all?” She didn’t even wait for Tony to respond before adding, “That is, before you threw them in the trash can?” She smoothed out Tony’s shirt and picked off what could only be an imaginary speck of dust. “That’s not exactly setting a good example for Morgan, you know.”

“I’m being authentic,” Tony said with a wink.

Pepper only rolled her eyes, but Tony knew it was only halfhearted. “Get out there,” she said, nudging Tony towards the doors. “Go on and blow everyone’s minds. Again.”

“And it’s not even nine-thirty yet,” Tony said cheerfully, and he pushed open the double-set doors awaiting him.

For a moment, the only thing Tony actually saw were the bright flashing of cameras and outlines of microphones and reporters. And then the familiar cries reached his ears: “Tony!” and “Mr. Stark!” and “Can you explain the…?” and “What were your thoughts on…?”

Tony stood in front of the crowd, taking in the chaotic frenzy of flailing limbs and expensive cameras and microphones. An ever so small part of him missed the energy—missed those caffeine-jacked reporters and photographers trying to catch his attention, but a different part of Tony—a much larger part now, he realized, as he stepped up to the podium—missed the quiet more. After more than a decade of doing the whole save-the-world-and-come-back-kicking thing, Tony wondered if this was what retirement was supposed to feel like. Tony shuddered to himself before lifting his head to the reporters.

 _Retirement,_ he mused, turning the word over and over in his head. To him, retirement was a word that instantly sent images of white-haired, wrinkled old men rocking back in a porch chair and falling asleep at the drop of a hat.

But as the reporters slowly settled down to their seats and waited for Tony to start speaking, that word— _retirement_ —shot through his head again. He thought instead of sleeping in with Pepper, teaching Morgan how to use her own suit (because there will be a day when Tony makes Morgan a suit, whether Pepper likes it or not), and helping Peter apply to colleges.

That didn’t sound too bad.

With that, Tony cleared his throat, and the last of the still-energetic reporters somehow managed to quiet down. “So,” he said, stretching out his hands. “I’m not dead. As you all can clearly see.” He waved his metal hand at one of the reporters in the back, who was craning her neck to see Tony. With a smile, Tony looked back out over the crowd of people standing in front of him. “After a month of being under intense medical care and a few more added months of recovery time, I’ve gotta say—feels good to be back. Kind of. Someone told me that Ally McBeal is making a come-back, which frankly, I felt insulted that I wasn’t informed right away.”

Laughter rippled across the crowd, and Tony allowed himself a small smirk before adding, “But that’s not the only thing that has apparently happened while I was…away.” Smirk fading away, Tony added in a quieter voice, “It has also come to my attention—and to my pleasant surprise—that Earth has remained protected.” He turned to the back, where a large monitor stood behind him. He gave a small nod to the screen, and instantly, scenes of the mess in Europe played out for everyone. Pride prickled at Tony’s chest at the sight of Peter swinging full-speed at the great beasts of water and earth and fire rising from the ground.

Tony turned back to the reporters, who were somehow able to watch the screen while frantically recording notes on their laptops and notebooks. “Earth _remains_ protected,” Tony amended. “By a new generation of heroes.” He knew that behind him, other clips of scenes around the world—Africa, Asia, South America—were playing behind him. He could tell from the reflection in the reporters’ eyes that they were looking at scenes of a familiar glowing woman, a black-clad man, an iron-winged man, and another metal-armed man speeding through destroyed cities. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned since coming back,” Tony said, casting a look back at the screen, “it’s that Earth will never run out of its protectors. Its defenders.” He looked back at the reporters. “And that’s all I’ll have to say on that.”

Instantly, the reporters all rose to their feet—and that was when the questions began.

“Do you know where the other Avengers are?”

“Was anyone else aware of your recovery?”

“Is it true that you have a child?”

“What are your plans now?”

“I’m pretty sure the other Avengers would be obvious about themselves if they want to be found, and that’s for me to know and you to find out, and yes, I have a child, but don’t even think about digging up any more information, and,” Tony surveyed the ever curious, ever hungry reporters. Another camera flashed, and Tony blinked away the yellow and grey spots in front of him. Somehow, Tony’s eyes skimmed over the heads of the reporters until he found what he was looking for: a camera, directed straight at his face.

“And as for the last question I just heard,” Tony said, staring straight at the camera—and he knew Pepper was probably watching, along with Peter and Fury and the rest of the world—“I’m retiring.”

Another surge of energy ran through the crowd, and Tony lifted a hand. “I’m planning to spend time with my family,” he said over the hubbub. “Friends. Catching up on some news. Raise my kid in peace, thank you very much.” He tilted his head at the reporters. “Don’t worry, though,” he said at their gaping mouths. He jerked a thumb at the screen behind him. “You guys will have enough on your plates for the next few years.”

And with that, Tony turned on his heel and strolled out the doors.

“Retired?” Pepper only asked, matching her stride with Tony’s as the two walked away. “For real?”

“Partly,” Tony said, casting Pepper a sidelong glance. “You know I’m never gonna leave those crazy kids alone if they screw up.”

Pepper let out a light laugh. “And the other part?”

Tony reached over and took Pepper’s hand. He didn’t need to look to know that Pepper was smiling, especially when he said, “Let’s just say that I’m excited to finally sleep in a little.”

\--

After the press conference, Tony knew he had at least gotten the rest of his friends’ attention. And sure enough, just a few hours after the great news that _Tony Stark is Alive_ made its way across the television and the papers, knocks and doorbells practically shook the house.

“I guess that would be them,” Tony said, looking down at Peter and Morgan, who were both sprawled out on the living room rug. Peter attached a Lego man’s head to a body piece and, without even looking up, he only gave Tony a thumbs-up in encouragement.

“Why’re they so loud?” Morgan asked, lifting her head from the small spaceship she was making.

“No manners,” Tony only grumbled before walking towards the door. He turned to Morgan and Peter. “If I blink more than three times in a row, that means SOS, understood?”

This time, both Peter and Morgan gave thumbs-up in unison.

“Great,” Tony muttered. “Thanks, you two.”

“You’re welcome,” Morgan chirped before turning back down to her spaceship.

Heaving out a loud sigh, Tony opened the door.

The first thing Tony saw were blurs of browns and blues and greys and greens before feeling arms—multiple pairs of arms—throwing themselves around him. And for another moment, Tony wasn’t sure if he was hearing anything at all until he slowly realized that the roar in his ears wasn’t the rush of blood but actually the loud cheering (and also screaming of “I _knew_ it” and “ _seriously_ , Stark?!”) of heroes who most _definitely_ were over-caffeinated.

Or maybe, a small part of Tony suggested, they were just excited.

When Tony’s sight finally re-adjusted to the blobs of color around him, he finally made out the devilish, smiling faces of first Rhodey—and then Bruce, who somehow managed to shrink down to human size for just the sake of the house—and then even Thor, who smelled less like beer than Tony had expected—and Sam and Bucky, who, for all their troubles with Tony, looked ready to both pummel and hug him. And Wanda, who leaned against the doorframe with sparkling eyes and a small nod in understanding when Tony caught her watching.

“I was wondering how long it’d take for you guys to find me here,” Tony said, his voice scratching against his throat. “How long’s it been—two hours? Three?”

“To be fair, we were busy flying across the country,” Wanda called from the side.

“And I had to settle a ship out of my short captain friend,” Thor added. He patted Tony hard on the shoulder, causing Tony’s knees to buckle in just the slightest, much to his other friends’ amusement. “It is good to have you back, Stark.”

“Nice to be back,” Tony said and, taking in everyone’s still-silly smiles, he muttered, “Or something like that.”

There was another slight cheer from the others and then, a moment later, Tony heard the padding of several sets of feet making their way for Tony.

When Tony turned around, both Peter and Morgan were standing behind Tony.

“Hi,” Morgan said, looking up at the heroes standing in front of her. “You’re Daddy’s friends.” She looked up at Rhodey and smiled, as though relieved to find at least one familiar face. “Hi, Uncle Rhodey.”

“Hear that, you guys?” Rhodey asked, casting the others a smug look. “I’m Uncle Rhodey.”

“That’s not fair,” Sam snorted. “You knew the kid before us.” He bent down to Morgan and asked, “You ever thought about flying, kid?”

“Don’t be silly, son of Wil,” Thor said as Morgan started nodding, “the child would obviously like to try summoning lightning.”

“I don’t think—” Bruce started, alarmed, but then a familiar glow of red energy entwined itself around Morgan, and faster than anyone could react, Morgan floated out the door towards Wanda, who only smiled at everyone’s exasperated expressions.

Morgan, on the other hand, beamed down at Wanda. “Higher!” she commanded, and with a wide smile, Wanda obliged. “Look, Daddy!” Morgan called, waving at Tony. “Look at me!”

“I see you, little miss,” Tony managed to say. Passing Wanda, he muttered, “She’s never going to stop asking you to do that from now on. Just so you know.”

“That’s a burden I’ll bear,” Wanda replied. “You might want to look out for your little friend, too.”

“My little…?” Tony’s voice drifted as he turned around. Sure enough, after having to accept the fact that Morgan was indeed somewhat more interested in Wanda, some of the others had turned their attention to Peter, who shrank a little under the sudden questioning.

“Then what about you, child?” Thor boomed. “Would you like to try your luck?”

“I—” Peter started weakly, and then, in such Peter-like fashion that Tony almost snorted, Peter said, “I’m not a kid! I’m in high school!” He paused and, then, his eyes quickly roving around the group around him, he squeaked, “Mr. Thor, sir. Big fan, sir.” He jutted out a hand. “We met before. Kinda. Peter Parker?”

“The spider kid,” Rhodey supplied.

“Spider-Man,” Peter mumbled.

“Ah! So then, you must be an acquaintance of Ant-Man’s?” Thor asked.

As Peter stumbled and stammered around some kind of answer (and mouthed a quick ‘help’), Tony only said, “Try not to break the kid, will you?” He snapped his fingers at Bruce. “You. You’re the more responsible one.” He gave what he hoped was his best serious face at his friends. “Just because I said I’m retired doesn’t mean I’ll haul out the suit to fry you guys if you fry any of the kids’ brains.”

“Still not a kid!” Peter protested, but the rest of his words were drowned out by the laughter around him.

Somewhat more satisfied with the state of affairs, Tony turned back around. He knew there was still other matters to take care of just before the rest of the fun began. And as though sensing exactly what was yet to happen, Bucky lifted his head as Tony made his way towards him.

“He’s already waiting for you out there,” Bucky only said. His eyes flicked past Tony’s shoulder, and Tony had a feeling of where he would need to look. Tony watched Bucky’s expression for something—anything—but the man only nodded briefly at Tony before turning back to Peter.

“And you?” Tony heard himself ask, and a part of him wondered why he would bother asking Bucky Barnes, of all people. God knew he had a rocky relationship with the man, and yet, looking at the quiet way Bucky lingered around the doorframe and the sad way he looked past Tony’s shoulder made Tony’s heart twinge. This was the man, after all, who was also out of his own time. “How’re you?” To Tony’s surprise, the words didn’t feel as foreign as he thought they’d be.

Bucky, keeping his eyes trained on Peter, only replied, “He’s happy. It suits him.”

Tony pressed his lips together. Then, giving Bucky a single pat on the shoulder, he turned and left to find Steve Rogers.

\--

“You know, trespassing is against the law,” Tony said dryly as he sat next to Steve by the lake.

Steve, smiling at the water, only said, “I figured you wouldn’t mind.” Steve turned to Tony, and Tony felt like he was looking into the future. He had been preparing himself to see Steve—had been preparing himself to take on the signs of age in this man, and yet, looking at Steve now felt both right and wrong.

Steve’s hair had gone white, yes, and there were lines and freckles where there once used to be smooth skin, and he looked a little smaller than the last time Tony had seen him, and yet, when Steve smiled, Tony saw the same ridiculously gentle, hopeful smile that Steve had always given people before the day started.

“Look at you,” Tony finally said.

“Look at me?” Steve asked with a small laugh. He shook his head. “Look at you—right after pulling another miracle.”

“Not really me,” Tony said, squinting at some invisible spot on the lake. “Fury and SHIELD might have pulled something out of their asses last-second.” He coughed. “Don’t let them hear that, though.”

“Won’t breathe a word.”

Tony feigned a surprised look at Steve. “Did age finally make you start breaking the rules?”

Steve side-glanced Tony, and Tony was suddenly reminded of all the times Steve gave that semi-annoyed, semi-amused look before diving into a plan. “I’m not breaking the rules,” Steve said. “I’m just bending them.”

“Bending them,” Tony repeated. He turned to the lake. “I don’t know, old man—because I’m allowed to call you that for real now, you see—I think my influence has finally started rubbing off on you.”

“Don’t start,” Steve said, but his voice was light.

The two lapsed back into silence. Tony looked over at Steve again, and for the briefest of moments, he wondered if he should be angry. Or upset, at the very least. A part of him had been prepared to be—prepared to demand him why the _hell_ he decided to stay back in time.

“Why’d you do it?” Tony asked.

Steve kept his eyes on the water. “Do what?”

“I’m not joking now, Cap,” Tony said, lowering his voice. He turned his entire body towards Steve, but the man still didn’t turn back to look at him. “Why didn’t you come back?” He lifted an arm towards the people who were undoubtedly still clustered around the front of the house. “They were all waiting for you.” Tony thought about the burst of both anger and sadness he felt when Fury told him that Steve had decided to stay in his time. “You had friends waiting for you.” And then he thought about the pained look Bucky wore and added, “You had family waiting for you.”

Tony saw Steve’s shoulders stiffen, saw that ever familiar set in the mouth and the eyes. Even in old age, Tony couldn’t help but think, there was no way that Steve Rogers was ever going to lose that stubborn streak.

“I know,” Steve said at last. His voice was quiet, and yet, his words seemed to break into the silence just as much as a lightning strike would on a plain. “And a day didn’t pass when I didn’t miss those I’ve left behind.” Now, Steve looked at Tony with the beginnings of a sad smile twinging on his lips. “That includes you.”

Tony took in a deep breath. “That whole ‘together’ speech that you were always going on about,” he only said. “Did you think about it when you left?”

“I did,” Steve replied. He met Tony’s gaze. “But there wasn’t exactly a ‘together’ to come back to. Not really. Not entirely.” Now it was his turn to look at the back of the house, and Steve’s eyes were so focused that Tony wondered if Steve could somehow see straight through the wood and into the foyer where everyone was still probably laughing and talking. “But they’re all fine,” Steve said quietly. “Or they will be.” Steve turned back to Tony. “You said it yourself.” He leaned back in his seat. “There’s a new generation of heroes coming along.”

 _Retirement_ , Tony thought, and he only looked at Steve.

“The world’s still going to need a Steve Rogers,” Tony said at last.

“Just as the world’s still going to need a Tony Stark,” Steve replied. He let out a quiet laugh. “We’re not going anywhere, Tony.” He looked again to the back of the house, and this time, when Tony looked, Wanda, Sam, Bucky, Rhodey, Peter, and Morgan were all clambering out the back doors.

“You two done talking yet?” Sam shouted.

Tony only rolled his eyes and turned back to Steve. “I guess we’re not going anywhere, not with them still around,” he said, standing up. He offered a hand to Steve, who took it with a smile.

“No,” Steve said as he stood up. “Someone’s got to look after the kids.”

And as Tony and Steve made their way back to their awaiting friends, Tony said, “At least tell me you got to see me as a baby back there. Did you ever babysit me? I hope you didn’t. But did you?”

Steve only laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this fic is supposed to kind of tie up the last threads (*cough* fix) some parts of Endgame, so...on a more serious note, though, I honestly don't know how I feel about Steve's ending, especially after listening to what some other fans had to say about Steve's character development in relation to Bucky and everything. A part of me personally feels like Steve deserves rest (honestly, all of the OG 6 deserve peace), but I also felt like Steve suddenly declaring that Peggy was the love of his life kind of came out of left field (although I love Peggy). Either way, though, I'm still ready for Steve to linger around his friends for just a while longer, even if he needs a cane to walk around.
> 
> As always, reviews/constructive criticism are always appreciated! Only one chapter left, everyone! It's been a wild ride!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter, folks. I'll get more emotional towards the end, but I just want to thank you all for all the support and encouragement over the last few days. So without further ado, enjoy!

"Dude, you've got your tassel the wrong way."

"What?"

"Here—" Ned reached over and flipped the tassel on Peter's cap on the other side. "You're supposed to move it to the other side after the graduation ceremony's over and stuff. Otherwise your tassel makes it look like you've already graduated."

"Oh," Peter said, fingering the yellow strands of the tassel dangling by his ear.

"Don't mess it up!" Ned protested, whacking Peter's hand away.

"I'm not gonna mess it up," Peter replied, but still, at his friend's insistence, he kept his hands by his sides. He lifted his head to gaze around the gymnasium instead, where students in caps and gowns identical to his were milling around either by themselves or in big groups. Some kids were raising phones to take photos of each other; other kids were giving hugs or holding hands in anxiety or excitement, Peter couldn't quite tell.

"You nervous?" Ned asked, as though reading Peter's mind.

"No," Peter replied automatically. And then, a second later, he said, "Maybe a little." He looked over at Ned. "Is there anything else wrong with my outfit?"

"Nah," Ned said, waving his hand.

"You have a ketchup stain on your sash," a voice said from behind, and Peter whirled around. MJ's arms were crossed, but the small smile on her face made her look more relaxed than usual.

"Very funny," Peter said after a beat. "But I didn't even have ketchup this morning." When MJ continued to smile at him, Peter ducked his head down just in case. To his relief, there were no sneaky red splotches on the golden sash over his robes. When he lifted his head back up, MJ only started laughing.

"You still looked," she said triumphantly.

"You knew I would!" Peter shot back.

"He's just nervous," Ned supplied. "MJ, tell Peter he'll be fine."

"You'll be fine," MJ said. She dropped her hands to her sides. "You're just giving a speech. Just think of it as another Decathalon. Or giving a presentation to class. Or," she added, dropping her voice to a surreptitious whisper, "like going on the news to answer questions about saving the world." As both MJ and Ned exchanged high-fives, Peter groaned into his hands.

"One day, my identity will _actually_ be revealed, and it'll be because you guys wouldn't stop talking about it," Peter muttered, shaking his head.

"No, I'm pretty sure it'll be because you accidentally post something on Instagram," MJ replied.

Peter groaned again, but before he could think of anything to say, a bell sounded, and students instantly started to stumble themselves into some sort of cohesive line out the gymnasium doors.

"You'll be great," Ned said, clapping Peter on the back as they started to look for their designated spots on the line. "You'll see."

"Thanks," Peter said, shooting his friend a brief smile. Before they could fully depart, though, Peter felt a warm hand slide into his, and he didn't even have to look to know that it was MJ.

But he still looked, and when he did, MJ was smiling at him for real now—the bright, gentle smile that MJ only ever wore when they were alone on a rooftop, or when Peter was about to fall asleep from late-night patrolling and studying, or when MJ thought Peter wasn't looking (even though he always was).

"See you later," she only said, and with a quick kiss on the cheek, she let go of Peter's hand and disappeared into the crowd of students.

Cheek burning from where MJ's lips had met it, Peter made his way to his spot in line. He let that ridiculous feeling of MJ's touch float him through the procession of students—float him out the gymnasium doors, and then he was walking under the hot sun towards the football field, where people were already sitting on the stone benches and the bleachers awaiting the students.

From somewhere, Peter heard the beginnings of the graduation music start to begin, and for a second, Peter could only think about the _Fantasia_ movie he watched as a kid with that same music. He vaguely remembered seeing Donald Duck in Noah's Ark, and he remembered how Donald and Daisy Duck scrambled about the boat almost always missing each other, and Peter couldn't understand why he was thinking about that movie now, but either way, as he walked to his seat in the field of seats arranged on the turf, he felt his heart both rise and sink as the music swelled around him.

All of his classmates wore similar expressions of both dread and glee. This was it, Peter knew they were probably all thinking. High school was finally over. College was around the corner, or maybe it was military service or travel or work or trade school around the corner. And for Peter—despite all the late-night patrols and missions—he had somehow managed to get into MIT. Both Tony and Rhodey had offered to write recommendation letters for him (Tony had almost sent the recommendation letter, more like), but Peter had refused their help. "I want to see if I can get in on my own," he had told Tony specifically. And there had been arguments—plenty of arguments—but then May had stepped in, and then Pepper stepped in, and even Steve stepped in, and then even Morgan took Peter's side, which ultimately made Tony finally drop the recommendation.

Peter swiveled his head up at the bleachers. He saw Ned's parents (they were up at the top), and then he saw MJ's parents. He saw some of his other classmates' parents, some old teachers, even some older alumni of the high school, and as all of the students sat down in their seats, Peter spotted them.

He saw May first. Once finding Peter in the crowd, she instantly started waving, her face alight under the bright sun. Right next to May, Peter noticed, Happy had his sunglasses pushed up to his forehead and was waving at Peter with the same enthusiasm as his aunt. Peter shot Happy a quizzical smile before moving his gaze upwards.

He spotted Bruce, who gave Peter a thumbs-up, and then he saw Sam, who was holding up a camera of the whole scene, and then he saw Bucky, who was trying to sink out of the camera's lenses, and then he saw Wanda, who was glaring over at a man who was ogling at her from a bench away, and then he saw Clint, who was trying to get his kids to sit still, and then he saw Thor, who was proudly telling anyone who would listen that "the young fellow is about to start a new phase in his life", and then he saw Natasha, who (after Tony consulted with some friends in Wakanda and outer-space, was somehow brought back) was mouthing something to Peter (he had yet to learn how to lip-read), and then he saw Steve, who only winked at Peter, and then he saw Rhodey, who was threatening to grab Sam's camera, and then he saw Pepper, who was handing out a water bottle to Morgan, who was bouncing up and down in her seat with the excitement of any other six-year old, and then he saw Tony.

Tony, who had pushed his sunglasses away, and despite the murmurs and shifts in the crowd as people took in the great mass of superheroes sitting at the very center of the bleachers, Tony looked at total calm. When finding Peter, Tony shot him a wide smile, and Peter couldn't help but smile back.

And then student performers were singing some song about moving on to greater, better things, and all Peter could do was alternate his glances between Ned and MJ and his friends—no, his family—sitting up at the bleachers. Peter looked over at Ned, who was going to MIT, too, and then he looked over to MJ, who had gotten into Harvard, despite the fact that nearly everyone in the class thought that she wasn't going to apply to college at all. MJ caught Peter looking and pretended to gag at the singers, but when the song ended, Peter couldn't help but notice that she was clapping almost as loudly as everyone else.

There were speeches. Long speeches from the principal and the class president and the school superintendent, and as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, Peter felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck. He reached up to brush the sweat away and looked up again at the bleachers, this time at Morgan, who, despite her mother's protests, had started using the water bottle as a cooling compress. When Morgan caught Peter watching, she waved the water bottle teasingly in the air.

Stifling a smile, Peter turned back around in his seat just as the principal called, "And now I'll call up class valedictorian Peter Parker to deliver a short speech to his classmates."

Peter's smile slid off his face as he stood up from his chair. He flicked his eyes up to the podium ways before him and vaguely heard Ned and MJ whisper something like "good luck" before he moved out of the row of seats. He lifted his eyes to the principal, who nodded encouragingly as Peter walked across the field.

The principal started rattling off some short summary about Peter's time in school, but all the words drowned out in Peter's ears as he reached the podium. He shuffled out the cards he had tucked in his pocket this morning and for a second, the words seemed to blur right before him.

"Peter Parker, everyone," the principal said, and the principal moved out of the way for Peter to take up the microphone.

Peter felt himself set his cards down on the podium and looked up at the sea of faces before him. He found his friends again, but then he looked to the bleachers again.

And this time, he saw Tony first.

And Tony, lifting a raised thumb, only gave Peter a single nod, and Peter felt something shift into place. He let his eyes wander from Tony to the rest of the large family that had somehow all managed to gather for this one day. He let himself float from this podium to some few hours after the graduation ceremony—how he'd be walking towards his new family at the end, probably take some pictures, maybe kiss MJ in front of everyone, and then jump into the lake with everyone at the end of the day. And later, much later, Peter saw himself packing for college. He saw himself in the car with May as they drove to Massachusetts. He saw himself with Ned in the dorm, probably cramming for exams. He saw himself with MJ on the weekends. But he also saw himself coming home on holidays. He saw himself still eating Thai food with May and baking cookies with Morgan and just being in the same place as Tony. As everyone.

Peter smiled and lifted a hand. He waved at them now—at the people who had somehow been with him for the longest time—and started his speech.

And when he finally finished his speech, and when the students and parents started clapping, Peter found that specific spot on the bleachers again.

His family was whole again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first had the idea for this story, I was so nervous that no one would want to read it. I was also extremely nervous about doing a longer fic because I haven't written very long stories/had large projects for years. Furthermore, I was worried at taking any stab towards Far From Home, especially since movie speculation isn't exactly my forte.
> 
> However, you guys have just been so supportive and so awesome when it came to this story, and I really can't thank you guys enough for it. If anything, your support has given me the hope and energy to maybe start embracing more projects (more Tony and Peter stuff, for sure, and probably some other familiar faces), because frankly, I'm not ready to let these guys go just yet.
> 
> I think most importantly, though, I really wanted these characters to have the happy ending they deserved. Because honestly, I think tragedies have become overdone. In a world that already faces enough tragedy, we need stories to speak of hope and love and joy more than ever. And, of course, that starts with characters that we already know, as well as our own original characters maybe percolating in our minds.
> 
> So I hope this story brought all of you guys at least a glimpse of joy or love or hope in your days, because writing this story certainly brought lots of joy for me. But of course, that joy only came more strongly after seeing you guys come through with all the warmth in the world. Thank you, everyone-love you 3000.
> 
> Katierosefun (Caroline)

**Author's Note:**

> The chapters of this story will alternate between Tony and Peter's perspectives, so we'll see what Peter has been up to in the next chapter.
> 
> As always, reviews/constructive criticism are greatly appreciated! (Low-key hoping that people are actually reading this because I'm not quite sure what I'd do if I wrote an entire 10-chap. fic just to find out that people are disinterested haha.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A (Few) Far From Home Problem(s)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19714903) by [RavenWolf48](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenWolf48/pseuds/RavenWolf48)




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